


Catch Me If I Fall

by keeli_marie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Astoria is a good bro, Birthday Presents, Birthday Sex, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Cooking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Divorced Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, First Dates, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hugs, Kid Fic, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Open Marriage, POV Alternating, Post-Hogwarts, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, Rimming, Romantic Gestures, Slow Burn, Smut, Switching, ish, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2020-10-17 22:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20628296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeli_marie/pseuds/keeli_marie
Summary: When Draco Malfoy collides with Harry Potter one morning while dropping the kids off at school, things don’t go quite the way either of them would have expected.





	1. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me for my over use of commas as well as any other mistakes. This is very much unbeta’d and a work in progress. At the moment I have 8 chapters ready to go and I’m planning (fingers crossed) on trying to post one chapter a week but no promises.
> 
> Also I went ahead and set the rating and tags for what I have written so far. Explicit content will start around chapter 6.  
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Happy reading!  
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It’s a rainy morning in London, big drops of water floating down from the sky in gentle waves.

Harry is sitting in his kitchen, enjoying the constant patter of rain drops against the windows, the sound soft and steady, pulling him into a rare state of calm. His lips twitch up into a smile as he watches the two small boys sitting at the scuffed table across from him, their faces covered in a messy mix of chocolate milk and syrup.

Harry continues to smile, even as he watches Albus drag a finger through the extra syrup on his plate, lift it to his mouth and grin around the sugary sweetness. His smile vanishes a moment later though, when Al promptly shoves his slobbery finger into his left nostril. 

“Al, get your finger out of your nose please,” Harry says with a sigh. He glances down at his watch and his sense of calm evaporates in an instant. 

He has twenty minutes to get them out the door and at this rate they won’t be halfway done with their breakfast by then. And of course, there’s also the fact that it will probably take Harry nearly fifteen of those minutes to wrangle them back into the bathroom and get rid of all the stickiness. Harry doesn’t know why cleaning charms never seem to get rid of syrup but it’s an inconvenience to say the least.

Harry should have gotten up the first time his alarm buzzed and he really, really should have known better than to give the boys pancakes on a weekday.

. . .

Forty minutes later, Harry tumbles out of the Floo with Albus held tightly against his hip. They’re only ten minutes late which Harry counts as a win. 

He stands in front of the huge fireplace, letting Albus down when he squirms, and dusts both of them off. Harry looks around the quiet reception hall that’s usually bustling with tiny children and harried adults. It’s strange to see it so empty. He’s never been this late before and honestly, he’s unsure what to do. 

Harry has only recently been put in charge of morning drop offs and play dates and all other child related activities. He’s still figuring out what works best for both him and the boys. And while he and Ginny are pretty firm on the whole co-parenting thing, she’s been traveling a lot for her new job with Quidditch Weekly, and more and more has been added to Harry’s list of responsibilities. Harry doesn’t mind though, being a full time dad is a vast improvement over sitting in the DMLE shuffling paperwork everyday.

Harry loves his boys more than anything. James with his mischievous grin and exuberant personality, making what Harry thinks is the perfect blend of his namesakes. Al with his chubby fingers and his love of books and the way he always seems to be missing a sock.

Maybe Harry should have been paying more attention. Maybe he should have showed some simple manners and stepped away from the fireplace after exiting. Maybe he should have just stayed in bed.

But he did none of those things and now, he finds himself being knocked forward hard by a solid weight at his back.

His feet slide on the marble floor and he flings an arm out in a flailing attempt to balance. He manages, somehow, to stay upright and before he can even turn around to see who or what has just slammed into him, an irritatingly familiar posh voice echoes in the empty hallway.

“Potter,” Malfoy says, his tone clipped but polite, “I apologize. I certainly didn’t mean you any harm.”

Harry turns and watches dumbstruck as Malfoy lifts a hand and pushes the hair back from his forehead, his cheeks going slightly pink as he straightens his clothes. 

Draco Malfoy has just barreled out of the Floo and into Harry, which is presumably Harry’s own fault, and Malfoy is the one apologizing.

Something is wrong here. Malfoy is meant to mock Harry, to call him uncultured and mannerless, he should be pointing out Harry’s lack of parents or calling someone a Mudblood or something. Anything but this stiff politeness.

Harry just stares at his former enemy, unsure of how he’s supposed to respond. 

Yeah, it’s true that Harry doesn’t hate Malfoy anymore, he hasn’t for a long time now and he’s way too old for juvenile rivalries. Harry had even spoken on the Malfoy’s behalf at the trials after the war. Well, two of the Malfoy’s. Lucius is rotting away in Azkaban and that’s just fine in Harry’s opinion. 

But still, that doesn’t make them friends. It doesn’t make them anything. There were never apologies exchanged, not a handshake, not a single nice word. Nothing. 

For ten years, Harry’s life has been Malfoy free and now here one of them is, being polite and civil and Harry really just wants to punch him in the face.

“Al!” squeals the miniature version of Malfoy that Harry hadn’t noticed. The boy is standing beside his father, pale fingers curled into the fabric of Malfoy’s trousers as he bounces excitedly. 

“Scorp!” Albus yells, peeking around Harry’s legs before rushing forward and colliding with the blonde boy. High pitched laughter fills the formerly quiet corridor, the sound echoing off the walls and making Harry wince.

How didn’t he know that his son was friends with Malfoy’s son? Hell, he hadn’t even known Malfoy had a son or that he apparently attended this school. 

“Has he been going here since the start of the term?” Harry asks, still reeling from the shock of this whole experience and positive that he would have noticed Malfoy at some point over the last two months.

“Yes,” Malfoy replies, drawing the word out as if to indicate that Harry is somehow brain damaged. But even that isn’t done cruelly, if anything the raised eyebrow and questioning look seem almost playful.

Harry tries desperately to come up with a plan that will result in the end of this ridiculous situation. Because if Harry knows anything, it’s that he is not equipped to deal with polite Malfoy’s so early on a Monday morning. 

“My schedule doesn’t allow me to get him here for regular drop off time,” Malfoy continues when Harry doesn't respond. Malfoy shifts nervously and tugs the sleeves of his blue sweater down over his fingertips, “That’s probably why we haven’t run into each other before.”

“Right,” Harry says breathlessly, almost certain that was the longest sentence he has ever heard Malfoy speak that wasn’t cutting or rude in any way. 

“It appears our sons get along well, which if you don’t mind me saying, is utterly amusing,” Malfoy’s lips twitch up at the corners as he speaks and finally break into a genuine smile.

First Malfoy apologizes and now he’s smiling. It’s apparently a day for firsts.

“Yeah looks that way,” Harry says, offering a small smile back. He glances down at the two boys in front of him. They’re whispering, both their faces lit up with smiles. And that, only that, can be the reason why the next words fly out of Harry’s mouth unchecked, “We should get them together for a play date sometime.” 

As soon as the words leave his mouth Harry wonders just where the fuck they came from. Of all the stupid things to say, that’s what his brain managed to come up with. 

Malfoy looks startled for just a moment before his face smoothes out and Harry’s treated to another genuine smile.

“You know Potter, I think that’s a great idea. Owl me anytime,” says Malfoy.

“Er right. Sounds like a plan then,” Harry says before turning to Al and offering his hand, “Come on Albus, we need to get you to your classroom.” 

Malfoy takes Scorpius’ hand as well and the four of them awkwardly make their way down the hall. Harry and Malfoy don’t speak to each other again, but the boys keep up their happy chatter the whole way. 

Al and Scorpius are handed off to the teacher without incident leaving Harry with no other choice but to walk alongside Malfoy back to the Floo.

Once there, Harry swallows his nerves and thrusts out a hand, “It was nice seeing you Malfoy, I’ll be in touch about the play date.” 

Malfoy looks at Harry’s hand first then at his face, hesitating slightly before gripping Harry’s hand hard and pumping his arm a few times.

_He’s warm,_ Harry’s brain supplies because somehow that’s shocking. Harry expected Malfoy’s skin to be cold, matching the personality and demeanor he usually projects. But those long, elegant fingers are warm and Harry is hit with the sudden urge to lace their fingers together and hold on tight. 

Instead, he quickly drops Malfoy’s hand and rubs at the back of his neck to keep his traitorous fingers occupied.

“Potter,” Malfoy says simply with a nod, and then in a flash of green he’s gone. 

. . .

Harry is on time every morning for the rest of the week, which means he doesn’t run into Malfoy again. And that’s good, surely. Just because they’re both apparently capable of civil conversation doesn’t mean they have to over do it. 

At least, that’s what Harry tells himself as he paces the length of his study Friday evening. 

The boys are upstairs, already asleep and Ginny just called to tell him she got a huge break on her story about the Keeper for Puddlemere United and will be extending her trip for a few more days. 

Harry is lonely and bored and maybe just a little bit drunk and that has to be why he can’t stop thinking about Malfoy. 

And Harry did say he would be in touch. It’s been four days, which is a perfectly acceptable amount of time to wait before owling your ex-nemesis to plan a play date for your children. Isn’t it?

He’s doing it for Albus he tells himself firmly. It’s a play date, no big deal. Harry can handle that. He sets down his tumbler of firewhisky and goes to sit at his desk. He quickly sorts through the clutter enough to find a blank piece of parchment and a quill.

After a few minutes of tortured deliberation, Harry decides to throw caution to the wind and quickly writes out a short letter.

_Malfoy,_

_Wanted to see if you would be free this weekend. Thought we could get the boys together? Let me know._

_H.P. _

Harry calls for Hootie—the boys named him so Harry refuses to feel bad about the ridiculous name—tying the letter to his outstretched foot quickly, and then resumes his pacing.

He doesn’t expect a fast response. To be honest, he doesn’t expect a response at all. So when Hootie flies back in the window only a half hour later, Harry jumps, lunging across the room to snatch the letter up. 

His pulse pounds loudly in his ears and his palms are damp, and it occurs to Harry that he’s being ridiculous. 

But interactions with Malfoy have always made him feel this way; jittery with adrenaline pumping through his veins. That’s just par for the course with them and has been, since they were eleven. 

Harry unfolds the letter and reads Malfoy’s reply. 

**Potter,**

**Scorpius and I are free tomorrow afternoon if that works for you? I know a great park we could meet at.**

**D.L.M.**

_Malfoy,_

_Send me the address and we’ll meet you there at 3?_

_H.P._

As Harry waits for a reply, he considers that maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. 

. . .

This was a terrible idea, Harry thinks the next afternoon as he stands beside Malfoy and watches as their sons play. The park Malfoy suggested they meet at is brilliant though, disguised with a Muggle Repelling Charm and fitted with all manner of high quality Wizarding playground equipment. 

The swings look like broomsticks and not only swing forward and backward but dip up and down too. A green dragon lowers its scaly tail to the ground, allowing the children to climb up easily and slide down off its snout. The sandbox is piled high with multicolored enchanted sand that sparkles in the afternoon sun and easily moulds into whatever shape the children desire. 

It’s definitely a step up from the Muggle park Harry usually takes the boys to. He isn’t fond of going out into the Wizarding parts of London, especially with the boys, ever since a trip to Diagon for ice cream resulted in them being practically mobbed in the street. 

When he voiced his concern, Malfoy assured him they wouldn’t have any trouble here and he was right. Merlin help him, Harry is already starting to trust Malfoy, at least in regards to the kids safety.

Harry realizes over the course of the afternoon that he knows very little of what Malfoy’s life post-war has been like. What he does know, is that the Malfoy name has never recovered. People still hold grudges even a decade later and Harry knows that Malfoy is just as likely to gain unwanted attention as he is. 

Harry’s learning, little by little, what kind man Malfoy has grown into. What surprises him most, is that Draco Malfoy turned out to be a pretty great dad. He’s hands-on and attentive, and it’s clear that his son adores him.

Still, the point is this was a terrible idea.

Harry can deal with a lot of things. But seeing Malfoy in causal Muggle clothes—he’s wearing jeans with rips in them for Merlin’s sake—his designer sunglasses perched on his straight nose, and his hair tousled from the light autumn breeze, is just not something Harry can handle. 

It’s surreal. Harry has never seen this laid back version of Malfoy before and he has no idea how to feel about it.

“So this is your weekend with the children then?” Malfoy asks, dragging Harry out of his thoughts and back to the present.

“Oh, er yeah—I mean. We don’t really have a set schedule. Ginny’s off chasing a story right now, so I’ve had them full time for the last few weeks,” Harry says, tripping over his words, still not sure how to answer when people start asking questions related to his recent divorce.

Malfoy just nods, surprisingly not pressing for more answers.

“And uh your wife? Where is she today?” Harry asks, trying to remember which Greengrass sister it is that Malfoy married.

“Ah Astoria is hosting her friends this afternoon, some sort of book club or something,” Malfoy says with a flap of his hand.

They’re silent for a few moments before Harry speaks again, failing to fight the urge to ask the question he’s been pondering for a week.

“Why?” Harry asks, knowing he needs more words but unable to form any.

“Why does my wife participate in a book club?” Malfoy replies, an eyebrow raised and a playful smirk on his face.

“No I mean—“ Harry blows out a breath. He knows it’s unlikely that Malfoy has an ulterior motive but old habits die hard and fuck it, he has to know, “Why did you say yes when I suggested getting the kids together? Why are you being nice to me? Just—why?”

Malfoy doesn’t say anything right away, instead he lifts his sunglasses off his nose and settles them on his head. He meets Harry’s eyes for a moment and then looks away, clearing his throat.

“Because I’ve moved on from the past. I’ve grown up, we both have. But mostly because our sons are friends, and I will always do right by my son,” Malfoy answers, and Harry can’t very well argue with that. 

“So, I see we’ve progressed to the awkward question portion of this outing. Is it my turn then?” Malfoy asks, his lips twitching at the corners.

Harry laughs, “Sure, why not.”

Malfoy clears his throat again, “You’ve been busy this past year. Quit your job, got divorced,” Malfoy smirks and throws Harry’s question back at him, “Why?”

The question surprises Harry. Most people don’t ask why, they just share their feelings on the matter, as if Harry has nothing better to do than listen to complete strangers drone on about his career options or his love life.

“I hated it,” he admits after a moment, “Being an Auror I mean. I was tired of fighting. I absolutely loathed all the paperwork and politics and other nonsense that came along with the job. Honestly, I kept on with it longer than I should have but that’s what people expected of me,” Harry finishes with a shrug. 

“Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World and Dark Lord Vanquisher. Of course people expected it,” Malfoy says with a laugh, “But I was always under the impression that you enjoyed it?” 

Before Harry can formulate an answer, James appears in front of them bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Dad chase me!” James demands before slapping his little hands against Harry’s arm and running off.

Albus and Scorpius are playing on the see-saw that resembles a hippogriff, obviously tired of James endless game of tag, so Harry gives Malfoy an amused smile and takes off in pursuit of his son.

Harry chases and catches and chases some more. Finally, embarrassingly out of breath, Harry waves James off telling him it’s time for a break, and makes his way back across the park towards Malfoy.

“Well?” Malfoy asks. When Harry just stares dumbly he adds, “You never answered my question.” 

Harry’s eyes meet stormy grey ones, the whisper of something dancing in their depths. Malfoy is like a puzzle Harry is itching to figure out. 

Honesty has seemed to work well so far, something they never tried in their adolescence, so Harry tells him the truth.

“I did what was expected of me. I got the job and the girl and had the kids but it—“ Harry cuts himself off, struggling to articulate what he means without sounding like a selfish bastard, “I love my kids, I love them so much and wouldn’t trade them for anything. But all of it, my entire life since the war, came about because I made choices I felt other people expected me to make, not because it was what I wanted.”

Harry feels a weight he didn’t know was there lift off his chest. He hasn’t ever said that so plainly to anyone before, always worried his words will be taken the wrong way. But here, under the autumn sun, Harry admits the truth that has been eating away at him for years.

Malfoy nods, an understanding passing between them as if Malfoy knows exactly what Harry means, as if he himself feels the same way. 

“Fuck everyone else,” Malfoy states simply, making Harry laugh again. 

When was the last time he’s laughed this much?

“If only it were that easy,” Harry finally says with a sigh, aware of how unreal it is to be having this conversation with Malfoy of all people.

“I’ve learned that there’s power in letting go of other peoples expectations and living for yourself. Sometimes you have to make compromises but it really is that easy—if you want it to be,” Malfoy’s eyes are locked on Harry’s and something shifts between them, the cool air around them charged with some unnamed emotion.

Once again, Harry feels the desire to reach out and hold onto Malfoy swell up inside him. It’s like he has been floating along through life, struggling to stay above water and Malfoy is the lifeline he’s been waiting for.

Which is absolute bollocks, Harry mentally reminds himself, tearing his eyes away and focusing instead on the changing leaves. He shouldn’t be reacting to Malfoy like this.

The push and pull of tension and adrenaline pulsing between them is familiar, though. Strangely comforting. This is just them. They’ve always been drawn to one another and even when hate was all that was between them, they still saved each other.

Harry remembers Ron asking him, not long after the final battle, why he had risked everything to go back and save Malfoy in the Room of Requirement. By that point, Harry had an entire list of acceptable answers to the question. 

_Because Malfoy didn’t identify me at the Manor._

_Because Malfoy lowered his wand that night on the astronomy tower. _

_Because I almost killed him once._

But in that moment, when Fiendfyre raged around them, as sweat gathered on Harry’s forehead and his thighs gripped the broom as tightly as he could, the only thought he had was _No, not him. Not like this._

A world where Malfoy didn’t exist to antagonize him didn’t make sense, and at the time, that was all the reason Harry had needed.

“I’m trying,” Harry finally says, “I’m trying to live for myself, trying to not care what other people think but it’s never been easy for me. I don’t think it ever will be.”

“As much as I say otherwise, it’s not easy for me either,” Malfoy admits, a small smile tilting his lips, “The fact that I’m married to a woman is proof enough of that.” 

Harry’s mouth drops open and his heart beat picks up speed. The meaning of Malfoy’s words ring loud and clear in his ears.

Malfoy, who takes Harry’s reaction as one of disapproval, immediately closes himself off. The shutters slam down, wiping every bit of openness from his face.

Before Malfoy can say anything, Harry rushes to reassure him.

“No, hey. I have no problem with, er that. At all. I swear,” Harry says quickly, “You just surprised me.”

Malfoy’s calculating gaze sweeps over Harry’s face, looking for something. Whatever it is he must find it there because slowly his posture relaxes and his face smoothes.

“Alright then,” Malfoy says with a clipped nod.

As silence once again stretches out between them, Harry tries to stop his brain from dredging up all the things he never lets himself examine too closely. It’s harder than it should be.

Harry keeps _those_ thoughts locked tightly in a box at the back of his mind. They’re always there but he rarely acknowledges them. It really isn’t his fault that he hadn’t had time for a sexuality crisis when he was younger. He’d been too busy trying not to be murdered and finding Horcrux’s and fighting a war he shouldn’t have been fighting. But he’s a twenty-eight year old father of two, now probably isn’t the time for one either. 

Harry firmly slams the lid to the box closed and clears his throat, “So um, are we still asking awkward questions then?” 

Malfoy laughs, “Yes, Potter. Go on and ask.”

Harry isn’t sure how exactly to voice his question. Being tactful is not a talent he possesses. Malfoy is staring at him, an amused expression on his face, clearly just waiting for Harry to stick his foot in his mouth.

“But um, I mean, you and Astoria - you, did you er…Scorpius though, how…?” Harry manages to stutter out after a moment. Just brilliant, Potter, the voice inside his head taunts.

Malfoy just continues to stare for a few very long seconds before he dissolves into laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners and his face softening.

“Sweet Salazar. Astoria and I have never slept together, Potter, which is what I assume you’re asking. You do realize there are other means of conceiving a child, yes?” 

_Oh._ Of course Harry knows that. And great, now Malfoy is looking at him like he’s an idiot.

“Why would you marry someone you weren’t attracted to?” Harry snarks, because if he’s an idiot then so is Malfoy.

“It’s complicated,” Malfoy sighs, a weary expression clouding his face, “Maybe one day I’ll tell you.”

Even though Harry is insanely curious, he gives Malfoy a nod and a small smile. 

The conversation shifts into something lighter after that and Harry is equal parts relieved and disappointed. As much as he doesn't feel ready to share anything too personal with Malfoy yet, he also wants to learn more about him. There are so many questions rattling around inside his head and Harry hopes in time he’ll get the answers to them. 

When they part later that afternoon, Malfoy offers his hand this time and asks if they can get together again. Harry eagerly agrees and the boys squeal with excitement. 

Harry’s pretty sure that he and Malfoy are friends now or at least on their way to it. For some reason, that thought causes something in his chest to squirm in delight.

But, he’ll worry about that later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are awesome and honestly make my day! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. November

Draco pulls his winter cloak tighter around himself, the soft fur lining not doing much to warm him as he makes his way across the grounds of the Manor. The frost covering the grass crunches under his feet and his breath puffs out in front of him, like little white clouds dancing in the chilly morning air. He should have cast a warming charm before he ventured outside, but he hadn’t expected it to be this cold. His fingers are already starting to go numb, so there’s no sense trying to cast one now.

When he finally steps into the warmth of the greenhouse the skin on his face stings harshly, the difference in temperature almost shocking. Within a few minutes spent in the magically controlled climate, Draco quickly shrugs out of his extra layers, sweat already starting to gather across his forehead.

He rolls his shoulders, pulls his hair up into a knot at the top of his head, and starts on his list of tasks that need completed. Draco is meticulous in his movements; watering, pruning, harvesting. This is his routine, every morning he spends two hours in the greenhouse, tending to the vast array of plants and ingredients that are fundamental to his mail order potion business. 

The process calms his mind, he doesn’t need to think about his next step, each action long ago ingrained into his brain. It’s cathartic. He loses himself in it, allowing his mind to wander into white noise, not thinking anything of importance. There are no thoughts of how much he has to get done today, no worries over Scorpius or Astoria, and most importantly, there are no thoughts of bright green eyes shining in the sunlight or the deep laugh that sends chills down his spine or the crooked smile he’d never before seen directed at him. 

Draco watches his hands move, completely entranced as his fingers handle the delicate clippings. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t hear the door to the greenhouse creak open or the soft clack of Astoria’s heels on the dirt floor, only startling and snapping his head up in irritation when he hears his name being called.

“Draco, did you hear anything I just said?” Astoria asks, hands on her hips, her plum dress wrinkling under her fingers. 

“No Stori, I didn’t,” Draco replies, heaving a sigh and finally turning to fully face his wife.

“You’ve been distracted for weeks. Are we ever going to talk about it?” she questions with a smile but Draco can see the concern lurking behind it.

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m _fine_,” Draco snaps, turning back to the worktable. His hands clench into fists, he can feel the soil under his fingernails.

“You’re a rotten liar, Draco Malfoy,” Astoria says as she walks closer. She rests a hand on his arm and squeezes gently, “Just owl him.”

Draco scoffs and shakes his head.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, looking over and giving Astoria a tight smile. It really doesn’t matter. There’s no point in pursuing a friendship with Harry Potter. Maybe they’ll get the kids together a few more times, maybe they’ll start to learn more about one another as just Draco and Harry, not Malfoy and Potter. But Draco knows it won’t last. Eventually, Potter will remember who Draco is, he’ll remember the things Draco has done, and that will be the death of anything they manage to grow between them, “I have to get this Valerian Root cut, so please just tell me whatever it is you came in here to tell me.”

Draco picks his knife back up and continues cutting the roots into half inch sections. By the time he has them cut and stored in a container for later use in his Blood Replenishing potions, Astoria still hasn’t said anything. Draco seals the container with an absentminded flick of his wand before he turns back to her.

“Well?” Draco asks. He’s tired of this little game he and Astoria have been playing for the last few weeks. She knows if she pushes, questions him gently, and then stays quiet, Draco will have the impulse to fill the silence. It’s her favorite method for getting information out of him. But he has resisted, refusing to discuss the mess of swirling thoughts that have cluttered his brain ever since he collided with Potter that day at the school. 

Astoria eyes him shrewdly, her face calculating. Finally she drops her gaze to the gold watch that adorns her wrist. It was a present from Draco, he gave it to her the day Scorpius was born. 

“Fine,” she says with a sigh, “Only because I don’t have time for your stubbornness this morning. But we are going to talk about this Draco, soon,” Astoria kisses his cheek and takes a step back, “I came out here to tell you that I received an owl from the Ministry, I have to go in early today.”

“Is everything alright?” Draco questions, concerned by the look of stress on Astoria’s usually carefree face.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” she answers with a small smile. Draco sees it for what it is, a thank you for his concern. He returns the smile and nods for her to continue, “Just the case I’m working on. Apparently new evidence came in overnight and now we have to rework our entire defense. It’ll be fine. Anyways, I’m leaving now so you’ll have to get Scorp his breakfast.”

“Alright, I can finish this later,” Draco says easily, “Go on and take care of your work crisis, we’ll be fine here.”

Astoria thanks him and then disappears back out the door, the scent of her perfume lingering behind. Draco cleans up and then makes his way back inside, happy to find that it’s warmed up some.

Draco goes straight down to the kitchen, shooing Fipsy, their most devoted house elf, away and starts his and Scorpius’ breakfast. Draco isn’t the most experienced cook, but he can handle a simple breakfast of eggs and toast.

As he cracks the eggs into a skillet, Draco muses that a lot of people would be surprised at his efficiency in caring for his child, at doing _anything_ for him. Most people probably assume he relies on his house elf for everything. But he and Astoria both agree that they want Scorpius to be raised and cared for by them. They share the parenting duties equally, working together as a team, and even though it’s not a marriage built on romantic love, Draco is still grateful to have a partner so well suited to him. He already has more than he deserves, there’s no reason to want for more. 

Or at least that’s what he keeps telling himself every time the thought of Harry Potter pops into his head.

. . .

After Scorpius is fed, his hair brushed, and has been wrestled into his school uniform, they step into the Floo, closer to being on time than they usually are.

When Draco steps out and into the reception hall a moment later, his breath catches in his chest. 

There, leaning casually against the wall, looking more like a Greek god than he has any right to, is Harry Potter. He’s wearing jeans that are hanging loosely from his slim hips, the hint of black boxers peeking out of his waistband when he raises his arm in a friendly wave. The long-sleeved henley shirt is also black, the three buttons undone and showing off a smattering of dark hair, the fabric clinging to the lean muscles of his torso and arms. 

Draco can only swallow and force his legs into motion as Potter steps away from the wall towards them.

“Morning Malfoy. Scorp,” Potter says, first smiling at Draco and then offering a fist bump to Scorpius, which is returned enthusiastically along with an excited ‘Good morning, Harry.’

“Yes, good morning,” Draco greets, a hint of confusion in his voice, “What are you doing here?” 

It’s a logical question. Draco hasn’t run into Potter since the day at the park. He’s usually here and gone by the time Draco drops Scorpius off.

“Oh. Uh well. I was wondering if you might want to grab some coffee?” Potter asks, his cheeks flushing a little as he shuffles in place. 

Draco stares dumbly, completely unsure of what’s happening, “Coffee?”

“Um yeah,” Potter laughs a little nervously, “You do drink coffee right? I mean, it’s fine if you don’t. We could get something else or—something,” Potter stammers out, looking more embarrassed the longer he talks. Draco absolutely does not find it endearing.

Draco can admit that he wants Potter’s attention, he always has. But he knows this is a bad idea. Coffee with the Savior isn’t part of his routine and it’s ridiculous to encourage whatever this is between them. He’ll decline the invitation, that’s the right thing to do.

But when he opens his mouth what he says is, “Sure. Coffee sounds good.” 

Sweet Salazar, what is wrong with him? 

“Great,” Potter replies, his face breaking into a pleased smile that makes Draco’s knees weak.

Potter waits by the Floo while Draco takes Scorpius to his classroom. Draco uses the walk down the hall as an opportunity to clear his mind and take a few deep breaths. 

This is fine. It’s just coffee. They made it through the playdate without any major disasters, this will be the same, just without the presence of the children to help them along through the awkwardness. 

“Ready?” Potter asks when Draco steps back up beside him. 

Outwardly Draco nods, while internally his panic spirals out of control. What are they going to talk about? The long list of topics they can’t discuss, leave little that they could safely converse about. Are they going to a Muggle coffee shop? Surely Potter won’t want to be seen in public with him where someone might recognize them. And what’s the point of this anyway? Is this when Potter politely tells Draco that they can’t be friends? Is that what’s happening?

A hand on his elbow snaps Draco out of his panic. Potter gently guides him past the Floo and out the doors. The hand remains while they walk and Draco doesn’t shake it off, the light touch sending tendrils of fire down his arm. 

Finally, they reach the Apparation point and Potter drops his hand before he speaks again. 

“Mind if I side along you?” he asks, tilting his head a little as he looks at Draco, “Are you alright?” Potter questions with genuine concern.

“Fine,” Draco rasps before clearing his throat, “That’s fine, I don’t mind. Where are we going anyways?”

“Starbucks,” Potter says with a grin, “I’m sad to say I might be a bit addicted to their caramel frappuccino’s.”

“Of course you are,” Draco replies with a smile. He takes hold of Potter’s forearm and nods, “Well, come on then, let’s go.”

Potter laughs and then they’re twisting away from the sidewalk, landing in a secluded alley somewhere in London a moment later. Potter leads him out of the alley and down the street, their shoulders brushing as they walk.

Before long, Potter veers off his path and pulls open the door to the coffee shop.

“You can grab us seats and I’ll order,” Potter says, stepping up to take his place in the short line, “What do you want?” 

Draco’s caught off guard at the question. Why is Potter offering to pay?

“I can order my own drink, Potter.”

Potter looks slightly embarrassed but he holds his ground, “No really, I invited you, it’s my treat.”

Draco sighs. He knows that look. It’s the look Potter gets when he’s made his mind up about something and Draco figures there’s no use arguing. 

“Fine. Vanilla spice latte,” Draco says, shuffling back towards the tables, “Thank you, Potter.”

Potter smiles and god, Draco is getting too used to those smiles, “No problem, Malfoy.”

Draco winds his way through the crowded shop, finding a small table in the corner near the window. Draco sits and watches the people pass by on the sidewalk outside, firmly keeping his eyes away from where Potter stands across the room.

People watching was something his father had encouraged from a young age. Blend in, be silent, watch, observe. Blackmail material is easy to come by when you’re skilled at the exercise. 

These days Draco just likes to watch people and make up little stories about them in his head. Giving each of them their own set of accomplishments and failures. It makes his own problems seem insignificant. 

“Here we go,” Potter says as he walks up and slides into a seat. He pushes Draco’s drink across the table, along with a chocolate muffin, “Thought you might be hungry too.”

Well that was…thoughtful. What’s Potter playing at here? Surely if he asked Draco along so he can tell him that this tentative friendship is over, he wouldn’t be buying Draco not only coffee but a muffin too. But Potter is Potter and he’s a Gryffindor, so that’s probably exactly what he’d do.

“Thank you,” Draco says quietly, still unsure of where this is going but hoping Potter gets to the point fast. Draco hates feeling so small in Potter’s presence. He used to be all cocky confidence but Voldemort and the war knocked Draco down a few pegs. He had been so sure of himself when he was younger and Merlin, he had been so, so wrong. 

“It’s just coffee,” Potter says waving off his thanks.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, both sipping their drinks and Draco nibbles on his muffin. Which is delicious. The rich chocolate melts in his mouth and he has to hold back a moan. 

“This is amazing,” he blurts out, “God, I love chocolate,” Draco says, letting his eyes drift closed as he takes another delectable bite. 

“I know,” Potter says with an embarrassed sigh and Draco's eyes reopen with a questioning look, “I spent six years watching you. That included meals,” Potter continues, looking more uncomfortable by the second, his hands clutching his coffee like a life line, “Wow, that sounded less creepy in my head. Anyway yeah, I know how much you like chocolate, Malfoy.”

Of course Draco knows Potter used to watch him. The man practically stalked him for the entirety of sixth year. He just didn’t realize that Potter would remember these little meaningless things about him a decade later. Draco decides the fact that he remembers a lot of tiny details about Potter also, is entirely irrelevant. 

“Just a bit creepy,” Draco finally says with a smirk, “I watched you too,” and that wasn’t supposed to sound as flirty as it does. _Hell Malfoy, throw in a wink too while you’re at it._

“Yeah but I was the better stalker,” Potter quips, a grin stretching his lips and Draco’s heart stutters when the action causes the small dimple on Potter’s left cheek to pop out.

But wait, what? Is Draco really sitting in a busy Starbucks with Harry Potter, arguing over who stalked who better? Maybe he inhaled some kind of toxin in the greenhouse this morning and is actually still at home, face down on the floor.

“What?” Draco asks faintly.

“I had better tools at my disposal,” Potter says with a shrug, “Believe me Malfoy, I win this one.” 

Oh, and that competitive tone is making Draco’s pulse race.

“Better tools? Explain Potter,” Draco demands but Potter just laughs around the straw in his mouth and shakes his head.

“Another time, I promise. Right now there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” Potter says, dragging a hand through the mess he calls hair and Draco’s stomach drops.

Draco makes a go on gesture with his coffee and watches as Potter squares his shoulders, a look of determination on his face.

“I asked you to come for coffee today because I haven’t seen you since we took the kids to the park. And maybe I’m mistaken, but I was pretty sure you said that you would owl me when you wanted to get together again,” Potter says and Draco feels instantly guilty because he did say that but then he convinced himself, in a fit of anxiety, that it was a terrible idea and had avoided the issue for weeks. So this is Potter calling him out. Interesting, “I respect your decision if you really don’t want to but I couldn’t just let it go. I thought we were maybe...becoming friends and well. In case I wasn’t clear Malfoy, I had a great time and so did the kids. I’d really like to do it again. Sometime soon.”

Potter keeps his eyes on Draco throughout his entire speech and Draco, well, he’s transfixed. He’s used to Potter stuttering and stammering through conversation but _this._ He’s so confident, looking absolutely invested in what he’s saying. His green eyes so earnest. And having all of Potter’s attention focused on him like that makes Draco feel lighter than he has in years. He soaks in the feeling, cherishes it, until he realizes Potter is waiting for an explanation. What’s there to say other than the truth? 

“I apologize, Potter,” Draco says as he fidgets with the lid on his cup, “I just, got in my own head. I thought you possibly had a wildly unusual lapse in judgement and wouldn’t take too kindly to hearing from me again. We’ve never been friends before and I guess I don’t understand why you’d suddenly want to now.” 

Draco didn’t mean to say all that, but he can’t take it back. He watches Potter scratch blunt fingernails across the scruff on his jaw. He looks like he’s dissecting Draco’s words, looking for another meaning.

“Honestly, Malfoy,” Potter finally says, shrugging a shoulder, “I don’t know why either, but what I do know is I like you. You’re not bad company when you aren’t being an arsehole and I’d like to get to know you better,” Potter holds a hand out, a small smile tilting his lips.

Draco doesn’t hesitate, he takes Potter’s hand and shakes.

“Friends?” Potter asks, their hands still clasped together.

“Friends.”

. . .

“Oh come on, Potter! You keep giving me the hard questions,” Draco whines playfully. He’s on his second cup of coffee and is actually quite comfortable sitting in Starbucks with Potter. 

They’ve been playing this ‘game of questions’ to get to know one another better, and though at first Draco was concerned, he quickly realized that Potter wasn’t going to ask invasive personal questions. Instead, he seems to be working from some list of ridiculous inquiries, their answers obviously not meant to be taken seriously. 

“Lies!” Potter says with a laugh, “How is this any worse than when you made me name a Hogwarts professor I’d have sex with?” 

Draco bursts out into surprised laughter, because yes, that had been amusing if a bit shocking.

“You cheated anyways,” Draco replies with a smirk.

“I did not,” Potter insists, flapping his hands around as if to make his point, “You never said it mattered _when_ the person was a professor there.”

“I assumed it was obvious,” Draco says with an eye roll, “I meant, as you well know, that you had to pick a professor who taught at Hogwarts while we were there. And the fact that you cheated your way out of it and chose Longbottom, of all people, is disturbing. Honestly, Potter, I’d have more respect for you if you’d said, I don’t know, Flitwick or something.”

Potter’s mouth drops open and an offended squawk escapes. Draco just laughs.

“Neville is technically a professor there and you never specified! Plus he was the only person I could name that wouldn’t give me nightmares when I thought about it later,” Potter says with a sour look on his face, “Just answer the question, Malfoy.”

“Fine,” Draco says relenting, “If I could pick anyone I wanted, I would have gone to the Yule Ball with Krum,” Draco finally answers. He wants to say _I’d have picked you_ which is the truth and the sole reason he was trying to avoid answering. 

The thought of lying to Potter, even over something so insignificant, makes Draco’s stomach flip uncomfortably. He wants Potter’s trust and he wants to deserve it. 

“Huh, Viktor Krum, alright. That’s actually not what I was expecting,” Potter says, his brows drawn together in contemplation. But then his face smooths and an absolutely evil smile spreads over his face, “Oh my god, you were pining after Hermione’s date! I bet you were so jealous of her,” Potter teases but the words hit a little too close to home and Draco feels his face flush. Thankfully, Potter doesn’t notice through his laughter. Because Potter does not need to know that yes, Draco had been jealous but not because of Krum.

He envied the easy friendship the Golden Trio had. Draco had friends of course. He was popular and could easily draw a crowd of his peers. At least, he could before all the shit with Voldemort hit the fan. But he never had a friendship like that. Not while at school anyways. He has it now, with Astoria, but that’s different.

“Wait until I tell her,” Potter says, breathless from his laughing fit. 

“What?” Draco chokes out. He will have to murder Potter if he speaks a word of any of this to anyone.

“Calm down, Malfoy, I’m kidding,” Potter says. He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, gracefully laying his toned forearms on the table and leaning towards Draco, “All questions asked and answered will stay between us.”

Damn right they will, Draco thinks. But now he’s curious. Was that an offhand comment? Something to tease and antagonize Draco with? Or did Potter really tell Granger that he and Draco are friends now?

“Have you told Granger about…this?” Draco asks, motioning in-between them with his hand.

Potter looks surprised at the question but he doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“Yeah, she knows that we’re friends,” Potter answers, and Draco still can’t get over how easily he says it. 

_Friends._ Potter says it like it isn’t a big deal. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like this is the way it has always been.

“One more question and then I have to get going. Or else the only thing I’ll get done today will be drinking coffee and talking to you, which surprisingly enough wouldn’t be the worst thing ever,” Potter says with a teasing smile and Draco’s heart thumps wildly in his chest. God, he’s in so much trouble.

“One more question,” Draco agrees.

Potter bites his bottom lip, “Would you and Scorpius like to come with me and the boys to the movies Friday night?” 

_Oh._ Definitely not what Draco was expecting.

Going to the movies seems very date-like to Draco but with the kids there it might be alright. And Scorpius has never been to a Muggle movie theater before, Draco’s sure he’ll love it. 

Suddenly, Draco wants nothing more than to be sitting in a dark theater with Potter.

“Yeah, Potter. That sounds great,” Draco says, anticipation already threatening to overtake him.

“Great,” Potter says with a nod. He finishes the last drink of his second frappuccino and stands from the table, the bubble they seem to be existing in bursting with the movement, “I’ll owl you a time and place?”

“Sure,” Draco says as he moves to stand too.

Potter offers his hand and Draco takes it without thought. But instead of a simple handshake, Potter tugs Draco forward, bringing his other arm up and clapping Draco on the back. An almost hug, Draco thinks, standing stock still, unable to make his muscles move to either return the gesture or extract himself from it. 

It doesn’t matter though because it ends as quickly as it began. Potter pulls back, looking almost as shocked as Draco but he doesn’t apologize or offer an explanation.

“See you Friday, Malfoy,” he says with a smile and then he’s gone, out the door and disappearing into the sea of people outside.

Draco sits back down in his seat and stares at the table. The only time he was ever that close, physically, to Potter was when they were fighting—and of course, there was that one terrifying broom ride when he'd almost died—neither instance really gave him a chance to appreciate being in close proximity to Potter. Back then his brain had been focused on other things, on the fists flying and the insults being thrown back and forth. He hadn’t had the opportunity to take in the way Potter smelled or how warm his hands were or how good it felt to have those arms around him.

Now that he knows, Draco doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forgot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are lovely and very much appreciated!   
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> 
> Chapter 3 will be posted by next Friday. Thanks for reading.


	3. December

Harry leans closer to the huge spruce tree that’s currently taking up an entire corner of his living room, the distinctive scent of pine filling his nose. Al laughs in delight and as soon as he’s close enough, he hangs the colorful Christmas bauble on an empty branch. James is climbing back onto the small step stool, hanging his own ornament on the other side of the tree. He’s only dropped this one twice, Harry notes with satisfaction.

Thank Merlin for cushioning charms, otherwise most of the ornaments would be in shattered pieces on the floor. 

Harry steps back, playfully tossing Albus onto the sofa, and then digs through the box of Christmas decorations. There are only a few odds and ins left in the bottom. They’ve been at it for a few hours now and Harry’s patience, and energy, is waning.

“I’m going to get a drink,” Harry states, narrowing his tired eyes, “Try not to knock the tree over, please.”

James and Albus are having what looks like an intense game of tug of war over a discarded piece of tinsel and don’t seem to hear anything Harry is saying. Harry sighs, he’ll be lucky if the whole room isn’t destroyed by the time he fills his coffee mug and returns. 

“Kreacher,” Harry calls and the elderly elf pops into the room a moment later, his blue pillowcase hanging off one of his bony shoulders.

“Yes, Master?” Kreacher croaks, his ears twitching.

“Can you keep an eye on the boys for a few minutes?” Harry asks, already picking up his empty mug and shuffling his feet in the direction of the kitchen. He could just ask Kreacher to get him his coffee but Harry needs a minute without the noise and squeals assaulting his eardrums.

“Yes, Kreacher can be watching the little masters,” the elf replies with a bow, his nose almost touching the floor as he does so.

“Thank you, Kreacher.”

Harry trudges down the stairs and into the kitchen. He taps his wand against the half full coffee pot, reheating it, and then fills his mug. He adds flavored creamer and a scoop of sugar, giving it a quick stir before he leans back against the counter. Steam wafts up from his cup, the smell of strong coffee and sweet vanilla causing a happy sigh to escape his lips. 

This time of year, Harry would normally be flavoring his coffee with something festive to the season. He’s a big fan of peppermint, but he’s been on a vanilla kick for weeks now. And no, it has absolutely nothing to do with Draco Malfoy. 

Harry takes a sip and savors the way the drink warms his belly. The vanilla is good, and Harry has to admit that part of what makes it so good, is the memory of the way it smells on Malfoy’s breath.

Alright, so maybe it does have something to do with a certain blonde git. 

Morning coffee with Malfoy has become a common occurrence, the two of them meeting at Starbucks by some unspoken agreement nearly everyday. Harry was surprised at first, by how easily Malfoy made a space for himself in Harry’s daily life but he can’t deny that he likes it. 

Malfoy is smart and kind and a good dad. He matches Harry’s quick wit and sarcasm with his own brand of snarky comebacks. He challenges Harry, bringing out his competitive nature, but it’s nothing like the rivalry they had in the past. They’re friends now.

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are friends. It seems unbelievable to Harry, that the boy he used to hate is now an important person in his life, someone he misses when they’re apart, someone he trusts, someone whose opinion he values, someone he cares about. 

Harry almost wishes that they had gotten over themselves and became friends sooner. It seems like so much time has been wasted. But, Harry thinks, maybe if they had become friends sooner, things wouldn’t be the way they are now. And Harry likes the way things are now, probably more than he should.

Their friendship has solidified over the last month, between play dates and coffee, Malfoy has become someone that Harry wants to keep in his life for the long haul. Harry has trouble remembering what his life was like without Malfoy in it. And that’s what scares him.

His feelings towards Malfoy are still jumbled up, a mess of confusion, contradicting everything Harry thought he knew about the other man. Yeah, he can admit now that he possibly finds Malfoy attractive. But what he’s supposed to do with that, Harry doesn’t know. He finds a lot of people attractive, both men and women, and Harry is finally starting to accept that about himself.

But something tells Harry that it isn’t just attraction that draws him to Malfoy. It’s more than that. Harry _likes_ Malfoy. 

Harry likes his prickliness and his snarky mouth. He likes how Malfoy pulls his hair up on top of his head, and how a few stubborn pieces always escape the elastic band and fall softly around his face. He likes the way Malfoy’s eyes are a perfect mix of blue and grey, and how if you look closely enough, you can see the pigments of other colors surrounding his pupil. He likes the way Malfoy gets confused when faced with Muggle customs or pop culture references, and then pretends he doesn’t.

And most of all, Harry likes how great Malfoy is with Scorpius and his own boys, always capturing their attention with exciting stories and dramatic gestures that are so reminiscent of Malfoy’s younger self, that Harry often feels a strange tug of nostalgia for the boy he never had the chance to know.

Yeah, Harry likes Malfoy. Who is very much married. Why is everything in Harry’s life so complicated?

. . .

A few hours later, a knock sounds at the front door and Harry waves Kreacher off, going to open the door himself.

Cold winter air sweeps into the entry way along with the scent of vanilla and sandalwood and a smell that makes Harry think of the city after a rainstorm. 

_Malfoy._

It’s starting to snow, light fluffy flakes falling from the cloudy sky, already beginning to cover the stoop where Malfoy and Scorpius stand, wrapped in heavy coats and scarves.

Harry quickly steps back and hurries them inside.

“You could’ve Flooed,” Harry says, watching as Malfoy brushes the snow from his hair.

“I know but I thought it would be a bad idea to bring coffee through the Floo,” Malfoy replies, offering the Starbucks cup, decorated with little snowmen and reindeer, to Harry.

“Oh. I told you, you didn’t have to bring anything,” Harry says, accepting the cup.

“You buy me coffee every morning, Potter. Say thank you, shut up, and drink it,” Malfoy orders with an eye roll.

“Thank you, Malfoy,” Harry says sweetly, batting his eyelashes.

Malfoy just scoffs and steps further into the house. He helps Scorpius out of his coat and before he can say another word, the little boy is off, running in search of Al and James.

“Scorpius,” Malfoy scolds, but Scorp is already taking the stairs two at time, “I’m sorry. I swear we taught him manners.”

Harry laughs, “He’s fine. Come on.”

They make their way into the living room where Harry takes a seat on the sofa and Malfoy drops down beside him, kicking off his shoes and stretching out his long legs. He’s been in Harry’s home a few times now and Harry’s pleased with how relaxed Malfoy seems to be. 

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, both sipping their drinks and watching the snow fall outside the window. Harry’s excited for the evening they have planned, Christmas movies and pizza with the kids, and then Scorpius is sleeping over for the first time. 

Harry’s rumbling stomach finally breaks the quiet moment, so he grabs the menu for his favorite pizza place off the coffee table.

“What do you want on the pizza?” he asks Malfoy. 

“I don’t really know,” Malfoy admits, “What all can you get on pizza?”

“Whatever you want, really,” Harry answers. He scoots closer to Malfoy on the sofa and tilts the menu towards him, “C’mon, take a look and see what you’d like.”

Malfoy leans closer to look, and Harry tries to not be obvious about the fact that he’s breathing in deeply, trying to catch as much of Malfoy’s maddening scent as he can.

“How am I supposed to chose?” Malfoy asks in a tone that says he is personally affronted by the wide range of options available. 

Harry laughs, god Malfoy is adorable. Harry shakes the thought away, certain he shouldn’t be thinking such things and also sure Malfoy would hex him if Harry ever dared to describe him as adorable.

“How about this, we can just order something simple, “ Harry suggests, “Oh, how do you feel about pepperoni, mushrooms, and sausage?” 

Malfoy nods, “That sounds fine.”

“Great,” Harry says with a smile, “One PMS pizza coming up.”

Malfoy splutters, his coffee dripping down his chin as he gapes at Harry.

“Excuse me?” Malfoy says faintly, wiping his face.

“Sorry,” Harry apologizes with a grin, “That’s what Hermione always calls it,” he explains. He does not, however, explain that he had definitely waited for Malfoy to take a drink before saying it. 

“I always knew that Granger was strange,” Malfoy says, shifting around beside Harry.

“Watch it, Malfoy,” Harry warns without looking up from the menu.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” Malfoy replies. Harry glances up at him then and raises an eyebrow, “Alright fine. Maybe I did. I apologize.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says easily, and he wonders if getting these simple apologies from Malfoy will ever stop being shocking.

. . .

When the pizza arrives an hour later, they all gather around the coffee table in the living room and tuck in, only the light from the Christmas tree and the glow of the television allowing them to see their plates.

Harry already has the movie ready to go and presses play before lifting his first slice to his mouth. He skips through the advertisements and a smile creeps onto his face as the opening credits begin, Al and James already rocking back and forth to the beginning of the first song.

“I thought you said this was a Christmas movie?” Malfoy asks sounding confused but he’s interested enough that he doesn’t look away from the screen.

“It is,” Harry replies quietly, “You’ll see.”

Malfoy nods and focuses on paying attention to what’s unfolding on the telly. Harry ends up watching Malfoy’s reactions more so than the actual movie, fascinated by the matching looks of wonder on Malfoy’s and Scorp’s faces.

By the time the movie ends, a smile seems to be permanently fixed on Malfoy’s face and the kids are piled together on the floor, half asleep.

They carry the boys upstairs, all of them breathing softly with eyes closed as the blankets are tucked around them. Harry lingers in the room, the sight the boys make keeping him rooted to the spot. Seeing three boys instead of two isn’t so uncommon considering Teddy sleeps over regularly, but the blonde head alongside his two boys _is_, and something about it makes Harry’s chest ache. 

The sound of Malfoy shuffling around downstairs snaps Harry out of his thoughts before he can examine the feeling too closely.

Back in the living room, Harry leans his shoulder against the door frame and watches as Malfoy moves his wand in delicate flicks, gathering up their leftovers and banishing the trash that has been discarded on the floor. 

“Thanks,” he says quietly. Malfoy smiles. Harry’s breath catches. It’s the status quo these days.

When he’s finished, Harry watches him pocket his wand, the worn hawthorn familiar in a bittersweet way. 

“Well this was great, Potter. Thank you for inviting us and letting Scorp sleep over,” Malfoy says, already moving to slip his shoes back on.

Harry steps quickly into the room and claps on a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder, halting him.

“You uh, don’t have to go yet,” Harry says hurriedly, the thought of being without Malfoy’s presence almost sending him into a panic, “It’s not really that late. We could watch another movie?”

Uncertain blue-grey eyes snap to Harry.

“I have hot chocolate,” Harry offers with a smirk. He squeezes Malfoy’s shoulder once and then drops his hand, the small touch does nothing to satisfy the urge burning through him. But it’s all he has so he savors it. 

Malfoy looks to the floor, chewing his bottom lip.

“Fine,” he finally answers, “but only if you have marshmallows.”

Harry just laughs and makes his way to the kitchen while Malfoy sits back down on the sofa.

And if Harry sends a frazzled Kreacher out to find marshmallows, well, nobody needs to know. 

. . .

The rest of December flies by. Having the boys at home everyday while they’re on winter break leaves little time for Harry to do much other than keep them occupied. But he manages to get his shopping done and the presents wrapped and under the tree by Christmas Eve.

This is the first Christmas since his and Ginny’s divorce but Harry’s happy that very little seems to have changed in their holiday traditions.

The boys stay with Harry on Christmas Eve and Ginny is there, bright and early the next morning, along with Ron, Hermione, and baby Rose. They all watch happily as the boys tear into package after package, the living room soon filled with colorful paper and more toys than Harry knows what to do with. 

Harry’s relieved that everything goes off without a hitch and is glad to still be able to call his ex-wife a friend. There’s no animosity between them, no tension or awkward silences, and when they all gather later that day at the Burrow for Christmas dinner, all the Weasley’s welcome Harry as if nothing has changed, just like every time he’s been there since the divorce.

It’s a good Christmas. 

Ginny takes the boys for the remainder of their winter break and Harry is suddenly left with a lot of free time on his hands. He spends nearly everyday with Malfoy, following him around the Manor, helping in the greenhouse and getting lectured on the fine art of potion brewing. 

Harry also meets Astoria, who he instantly likes. Many evenings find the two of them chatting over coffee or playing with Scorp while Malfoy brews some of the more delicate potions.

Astoria insists that Harry join them on New Years Eve, which is why Harry is standing in his bedroom, fussing over his appearance and trying to tame his hair. He doesn't know why it matters, he’s never given much thought to what he looks like before. He prefers to wear whatever’s comfortable and simply runs a towel over his messy curls, leaving them to lay as they wish. 

But tonight the desire to look nice has taken hold of him.

Malfoy always looks so put together, his clothes crisp and wrinkle free. His hair, even when pulled up in a messy knot, still looks styled to perfection. His sharp jaw never has even the hint of stubble and his nails are manicured and clean. 

_God_, Harry wants to look nice for _Malfoy._

Harry doesn't know when exactly he jumped head first into the rabbit hole that is his feelings for Malfoy, but he’s still waiting to reach the bottom. Free falling and only able to hope that it doesn’t end with him shattering to pieces.

Shaking himself from his rapidly spiraling thoughts, Harry yanks a dark green thermal over his head, immediately pulling the sleeves down over his hands and shoving his thumbs into the holes he’s cut. The color of the shirt makes his eyes glow bright green from behind his glasses and it fits snuggly across his chest. He’s still in pretty good shape even though he no longer spends his days out in the field chasing down criminals. Is it so crazy to think that maybe Malfoy wants him too? 

_Yes,_ his brain supplies and Harry frowns at himself. Whatever. He’s going to be late if he dithers any longer, so he quickly grabs the bottle of wine off his dresser and makes his way to the Floo, calling out the address and stepping into the flames.

When he steps out into the grand drawing room at the Manor, he’s greeted by a house elf he has come to know, and grow quite fond of, during his many visits over the last few weeks.

“Fipsy is welcoming you, Harry Potter sir. If you follow me, Master and his guests is being in the sitting room,” the elf says.

Harry follows the elf out of the room and down the long hallway, ignoring the whispers of the many portraits that line the walls.

“Potter,” Malfoy exclaims happily when Harry walks in. He pulls Harry into a one armed hug, holding what looks to be a glass of firewhisky in his other hand, “You’re late. I was worried you weren’t coming,” Malfoy continues with a pout, and oh good lord, Harry is not at all prepared for a drunk Malfoy or the way that pout makes heat pool in his stomach. 

_Fuck._

“Uh sorry, lost track of time,” Harry says, offering Malfoy the wine he has tucked in the crook of his elbow, “I brought you wine though.”

Malfoy smiles and takes the bottle, eyeing it critically.

“Who helped you pick this?” Malfoy asks with a smirk.

Harry sighs, “Kreacher got it from the Black stores, he promised it was a good one.”

“It is,” Malfoy assures, pulling out his wand and after two tries, pops the cork, “I suppose you’re forgiven. Stori look, Potter brought us wine,” Malfoy says turning to address his wife who is across the room.

Astoria walks over, smiling, “Yes, I can see that Draco,” she says, prying the bottle from his hands and asking Fipsy to fill some glasses. 

Malfoy wanders off, over to the other corner of the room where Harry sees Pansy Parkinson sitting primly and eyeing him with uncertainty. 

“Hi Harry,” Astoria greets, shaking her head a little, “I apologize about him. I tried to reign him in but he’s always been terrible at handling his alcohol.”

Harry laughs, leaning in to kiss Astoria’s cheek, “It’s fine. I am allowed to pick on him about this later though, right?”

“I’d hold it against you if you didn’t,” she says hooking her arm through his and pulling him further into the room.

The sitting room is large, fairy lights and greenery still decorate the walls and mantle. A fire is roaring brightly, making the room feel cosy and warm, and the smell of fresh logs burning hangs heavy in the air. 

Astoria introduces Harry to the few guests in attendance, almost all of them former Slytherin’s. They seem a bit weary of Harry but are friendly all the same. Out of everyone, Blaise Zabini seems to be the most welcoming, immediately dragging Harry into an armchair and engaging him in conversation, his loud booming laugh eclipsing everything else in the room. 

Malfoy stumbles over to them a few minutes later, shoving a glass of wine into Harry’s hand and perching on the arm of his chair. 

Malfoy and Blaise start arguing, almost instantly, over the proper way to ingest Gillyweed, which amuses Harry to no end. He sips his wine and watches as the others join the debate, Malfoy eventually getting so riled up that he climbs onto the sofa to wave his arms around dramatically. The scene is made all the more funny by the fact that someone has managed to get a bright pink _2009_ sparkly headband on Malfoy.

“I wish I had a camera,” Harry mumbles to himself with a laugh. He’s regretting leaving his Muggle cell phone at home, even if the camera on it isn’t the best. 

“Your wish is my command Potter,” Blaise says, pulling a small magical camera from his pocket and brandishing it proudly, “I’ll owl you copies.”

Harry snorts, not quite sure what to do with the man sitting beside him. Blaise snaps a few shots of Malfoy before calling out to him.

“Draco, come here! Potter wants to document this wonderful evening.”

Malfoy smiles, his straight white teeth glowing brightly as he jumps down from the sofa, stumbling a little. He plops heavily back down onto the arm of Harry’s chair, throwing an arm around Harry’s shoulders and leaning in close, his blonde hair tickling Harry’s temple. 

“Say Voldy sucks eggs,” Blaise instructs while holding the camera up and aiming it at them.

Harry and Malfoy burst into laughter, their heads knocking together, and Harry only vaguely hears the click of the camera, too focused on the sound of Malfoy’s musical laughter so close to his ear. It’s a sound he doesn’t think he’ll ever grow tired of hearing.

Harry would have never imagined that he could have such a good time in the company of Slytherin’s but he is. He feels warm and comfortable, happy to sit back and watch the evening unfold. 

When midnight draws close, everyone stands and counts down. Malfoy kisses Astoria on the cheek before leaning heavily into Harry’s side and smacking a wet kiss to his forehead. Harry returns the gesture with a laugh and then sighs happily, thinking about the saying that whatever you’re doing at the start of the new year is what you’ll be doing for the rest of it.

If Malfoy’s warm body tucked close to his own is what Harry has to look forward to, he sure isn’t complaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you probably guessed, the movie they watch is The Nightmare Before Christmas.
> 
> Kudos and comments are very much appreciated! I’ll have chapter 4 up next week. Thanks so much for reading <3


	4. January

The start of the new year, the familiar feeling of a new beginning and everything it represents, is one of Draco’s favorite things. 

The potential for change and the appreciation of all the memories that were made over the last twelve months hangs crisp in the air. For those first few weeks of the year, the surge of desire to do better and make the most of all the good things in his life is almost overwhelming. 

But Draco’s not thinking about all that right now, instead, he lets his eyes hungrily take in the details of the picture he’s holding in his hands, and he wonders at how, a year ago, he never would have imagined that he’d be friends—best friends, possibly—with Harry Potter. 

Honestly, if someone had told him he’d ring in the new year pleasantly drunk with Potter at his side, he’d have laughed in their face and had them carted off to St. Mungo’s to have their head examined. 

But here it is, solid evidence of their newfound friendship, right in the palm of his hand.

Blaise has given him copies of all the photos that he’d taken at the party, but Draco just can’t seem to stop looking at this one. He looks at it first thing in the morning before his feet even touch the floor. He looks at when he’s stressed throughout the day, when he needs something to lift his spirits. He looks at it before pulling the covers over himself and drifting off to sleep every night.

It isn’t the picture they posed for together. No, this is one Blaise managed to take while they were unaware. In the picture, they’re standing close to one another in front of the fire, Draco’s hand is on Potter’s shoulder, his head thrown back in laughter at something Potter had said. And Potter, god. He’s looking at Draco like there’s no one else in the room, like there’s no one else in the universe. His lips are tilted into a soft smile, something about it intimate, like a secret only shared between them. His eyes, focused on Draco’s laughing face, are bright green behind his glasses, the fire light making them glow like emeralds in the sunshine, and the affection in his gaze is shockingly easy to see. 

Draco eyes his photo self critically, trying to see what Potter does. It doesn’t make sense that Potter, or anyone for that matter, would look at Draco like _that_.

While Draco knows he’s no troll, he doesn’t think he’s anything all that special either. He’s too tall and lanky, his features too sharp to be considered classically attractive but he can’t deny the look of desire on Potter’s face.

Ever since seeing the photo, Draco has started watching Potter closely, and he’s found that same look reflected back at him in person. What to do about it, well, he still hasn’t figured that part out yet.

“Dad, is it time for Al and James to come over yet?” Scorpius asks, a whine in his voice. 

“They should be here soon, Scorp,” Draco answers with a smile. He carefully places the picture inside the book that rests on his lap and stands, “Come on, we’ll go find a snack while we wait.”

Scorpius runs from the room, his socked feet slipping on the floor, and Draco follows behind at a more leisurely pace. 

Once in the kitchen, Draco scoops Scorpius up and sits him on the counter. Draco gets to work cutting up an apple, spreading creamy peanut butter on each slice. Scorpius shoves bite after bite into his mouth, having to be told numerous times to slow down. 

Right as Draco is washing the knife off in the sink, Fipsy pops into the room, alerting him to Potter’s arrival. Draco instructs the elf to show them in and lifts Scorp off the counter, setting him down on his feet and smiling in amusement as his son takes off out of the kitchen, excited to see his friends.

“Hello, Potter,” Draco greets when he reaches the drawing room, pulling Potter into their normal one arm hug. The boys are standing with their heads close together, already in deep discussion about what kind of snowman they want to build.

“Malfoy, hey. How’s it going?” Potter asks, and if it seems like he holds onto Draco a little longer than usual, Draco figures it’s just wishful thinking on his part.

“Good, good,” Draco answers, finally pulling back and smoothing his shirt down, “You ready to head out?”

Potter and both of his sons are already bundled up in warm coats, scarves and gloves, matching red bobble hats on each of their heads. Draco’s dreading the prospect of getting all the extra layers onto Scorpius but warming charms only do so much.

“Yeah, whenever you are.”

Draco starts on the task of getting his son prepared for an afternoon spent outside in the snow. Finally, twenty minutes and one tantrum later, they all step out into the winter wonderland that covers the grounds of the Manor.

The snow glitters brightly in the sunshine, laying in a soft blanket over everything, making the tree branches sag under its weight. While the Manor isn’t always Draco’s favorite place, the sight of it in the winter is something that he never grows tired of.

“Snowman or sledding first?” Draco asks Potter, who’s watching as the boys fall to their backs, making small snow angels on the ground.

“How exactly are we going to sled?” Potter asks looking around, his eyes squinted in confusion, “It’s all so flat.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, Potter. I have a plan,” Draco answers with a grin, pulling his wand from his pocket.

Draco raises his wand and casts, the spell making the snow lift up, allowing Draco to direct it where he pleases. He carefully makes little hills, packing the soft snow tightly. Potter watches in wonder, finally getting with the program and pulling his own wand out to help. 

Before long, they have a variety of little hills and slopes, perfect for sledding down. The boys let out happy squeals and quickly grab the round sleds Draco has brought out with them, excited to test out the new landscape.

“That was clever, Malfoy,” Potter says, grabbing his own sled, this one wooden and large enough to hold an adult.

Draco clutches his chest in mock surprise, “A compliment, Potter? I never thought I’d see the day,” Draco teases.

“Shut up,” Potter laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners, that same look of affection and desire crossing his face for a brief second. Or maybe Draco’s just projecting, it’s hard to be sure, “Wanna race?”

Never one to back down from a competition with Potter, Draco nods and they both climb up to the top of the biggest hill.

“On three,” Potter says, but before he can count off, Draco interrupts.

“Wouldn’t it be more fun if we made a wager out of it.”

Potter gives him a wolfish grin, “What were you thinking?”

It hasn’t escaped Draco’s notice that Potter is wearing his old Gryffindor scarf, and Draco has acted accordingly, wearing his own house scarf as well. The thought of Potter with Draco’s Slytherin green scarf around his neck makes Draco’s pulse quicken, and an idea quickly forms in his mind.

“If I win you have to wear my scarf for the rest of the day,” Draco states, waving the end of the scarf in Potter’s direction.

Potter seems surprised by this, a look Draco can’t quite interpret clouding his face.

“And if I win?”

“I’ll wear that ghastly Gryffindor scarf,” Draco answers, trying to seem disgusted by the idea, when really, he can’t think of anything better than wrapping himself up in that scarf, warmed from Potter’s skin and smelling spicy, sweet just like the man himself does.

Potter nods and they shake on the terms before he counts down.

Draco pushes off, the wind stinging his face as he glides down the snowy hill. He wills his sled to go faster, wanting to win more than he’s wanted anything in a long time.

The universe seems to be on his side, because he inches ahead, winning by only a few seconds. 

Draco whoops loudly as he jumps up, quickly stomping through the snow to where Potter is still sitting on his sled, looking for all the world like someone has just kicked his puppy. Draco grabs his arm and hauls him to his feet, roughly yanking the red and gold scarf off Potter, before unwinding his own.

He steps closer, securing the green and silver scarf around Potter’s neck. Then their eyes meet and Draco hears Potter’s breath catch. Draco feels a jolt go down his spine at the sound.

The moment hangs suspended outside of time, the two of them standing frozen just inches apart. All the sounds of the day—the boys laughing, the wind blowing through the trees—fade to background noise, and Draco worries that Potter will be able to hear his heart beating wildly, like a trapped animal rattling the bars of its cage, threatening to break free.

“Dad! We want to build a snowman now,” James yells, and the moment breaks, reality rushing back in.

Draco drops his eyes and steps back, awkward tension now pulsing between them.

Draco does his best to forget about it, quickly deciding to add whatever _that_ was, to the list of ‘things we don’t talk about’. By unspoken agreement, they keep a friendly distance between themselves for the rest of the day.

Potter refuses to let Draco use magic to help with the snowman, and by the time they have it complete, Draco’s arms ache and his fingers are numb. But the boys are pleased, adding Potter’s discarded scarf and a carrot nose to their creation. 

When everyone is too cold and wet to stay outside any longer, they head inside, sitting close to the fire and sipping hot chocolate. Astoria joins them and the knowing look that crosses her face as she glances back and forth between them does not make Draco’s jittery anxiety any better. 

Draco tries to convince himself that the moment from earlier is nothing. It doesn’t mean anything. Potter was probably just uncomfortable with Draco being so close. No other explanation makes sense and he decides to stop thinking about it before he goes mad.

What Draco doesn’t know, is that Potter leaves for home with Draco’s scarf stuffed in his pocket. He doesn’t know that later that night, Potter sits in his bed, holding the scarf with care, his eyes closed as he inhales Draco’s scent.

He doesn’t know that Potter sends a quiet plea out into the universe, offering to do whatever it takes, to make Draco his.

. . .

The next morning, Draco is back in the greenhouse. He finished his work a while ago but stays sitting at his work table, enveloped in warmth, letting his thoughts drift.

He hears the door creak open and he finally looks up, watching as Astoria winds her way around the plants, coming to a halt at his side.

“You’ve been out here a while,” she comments lightly.

Draco sighs, “Yeah, I just—“ Draco stands and stretches, his muscles tight from sitting for so long in one position, “I was just thinking.”

“About Harry?” Astoria asks with a knowing smile.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Draco answers, starting to gather up his supplies, flicking his wand to return them to their designated places.

“Well I think we should talk about it. So, what’s the deal with you two?” Astoria asks, and Draco knows he isn’t going to get out of it. She’s let him avoid the subject for long enough.

“Merlin, I don’t know,” Draco says, nervously twirling a small trowel in his hands, “We’re friends but sometimes I think there’s something more there. Sometimes he looks at me and—Stori, no one has ever looked at me like that before.”

“You already know what I’m going to tell you to do, Draco,” Astoria says, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him, “Tell him—“

“I can’t tell him how I feel. I just can’t…” Draco trails off and blows out a breath, “I think. I think that I’ve wanted him since we were kids and now—“ Draco shrugs helplessly, unable to explain his complicated feelings. 

“You’re scared you’ll get him,” Astoria finishes.

“No. I don’t know,” Draco says, already knowing that it’s a lie. He does know and he is scared. He’s terrified, “Alright fine, yes I’m scared. He’s Harry Potter. He’s good and kind and so fucking earnest, and I’m just me. There’s no way he’d ever want me like that. And even if he did, I’d just fuck it up.”

“Draco,” Astoria starts, stepping closer to him, reaching out a hand that promises comfort.

“No, Stori,” Draco says, stepping back and shaking his head, “There’s no way. And I’ve tried to ignore it, tried to get over it, but I can’t. Why is it so hard to let go of something I’ve never even had?”

“Because you don’t _want_ to let go of it, Draco. Tell him how you feel, just talk to him,” Astoria urges, and Draco is tempted to listen, “What’s the worse that can happen? Harry says he doesn’t feel the same way and you stay friends? But the best thing that could happen, think about that,” Astoria says, her voice soft.

“The best thing that could happen would be Potter feeling the same way, and then the Prophet would have a field day and his friends would have him admitted to the Janus Thickey ward,” Draco answers, his voice flat, because that’s the sad reality. 

“I’ve seen the way you two are together,” Astoria continues, completely ignoring Draco’s last statement, “You’re practically dating already.”

“Excuse me, what?!” Draco breaths out with a laugh, completely baffled because he and Potter are absolutely not dating. Not even close. 

“Oh come on, Draco,” Astoria says with a roll of her eyes, “All the coffee dates and the movies and he’s here all the time. You two act like you’re attached at the hip. I think you should kiss him and just get on with it already.”

“You’re mad,” Draco says with a shake of his head, “That’s just not. No. We’re friends, Stori and I’m happy with that. Just leave it alone, please.”

“Fine, but I’m telling you, Harry has feelings for you,” she insists before turning away with a smirk and leaving Draco in silence once again.

It doesn’t matter if Potter returns his feelings, it would never work out between them. People would never accept it. Astoria doesn’t know what she’s talking about Draco tells himself firmly. 

But Draco can’t help but let himself, for just a brief moment, wonder what it would be like to tell Potter the truth, how it would feel to melt in Potter’s arms and stay there forever.

He suspects it would be better than all the magic in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated!
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	5. February

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up ;) Enjoy!!

Harry is not making a big deal about the date. He’s not.

But in every store front that he walks past, there are bright pink and red decorations strung up in the window displays. Hearts and tiny cupids following him as he walks towards his destination. It’s honestly a bit unnerving.

Harry doesn't care much for Valentine’s Day. He thinks it’s ridiculous that people need a holiday specifically designed to remind them to tell the people they love, _that they love them._ He hates how frantic people become, rushing out to buy overpriced flowers and chocolate in hopes of conveying their love, instead of just telling their significant other how they feel. 

So, no, Harry is not making a big fuss about the date. It isn't like he has anyone to spend it with and even if he did, he certainly wouldn’t be wasting his Galleons on any of the things he sees displayed.

He would have stayed home and avoided the day entirely, but even though he has no kids to drop off this morning and no real responsibilities to take care of, he’s up bright and early headed towards his and Malfoy’s preferred Starbucks. 

They’ve continued their ritual of meeting for morning coffee, so much so, that the barista doesn’t even bother asking for their orders anymore. They’ve become regulars. Harry isn’t sure how to feel about that. It makes him feel kind of old, but he decides not to be bothered by it. There’s also the fact that when he spends his mornings with Malfoy it’s usually the highlight of his day. 

Oh, if his eleven year old self could see him now.

But when Harry steps inside and sees the girls at the counter wearing headbands with sparkly hearts on them, he almost wishes that he’d owled Malfoy and cancelled.

His eyes scan the tables and land on a blonde head tucked in the back corner, and suddenly, Harry forgets all about his earlier grumblings. Because there’s Malfoy, covered in red glitter, furiously trying to brush the stubborn particles from his clothes. 

Instead of getting in line like he normally would, Harry walks to the table, pressing his lips together tightly to keep his laughter at bay.

“What the hell happened to you?” Harry asks, struggling to keep a straight face.

Malfoy growls—actually _growls_—and glares at Harry, “One of those blasted Love-O-Grams exploded all over me when I dropped Scorpius off this morning.”

“Did you try using magic to get rid of it?”

“No, Potter,” Malfoy retorts sarcastically, “However did that slip my mind.”

And that’s when Harry loses it, delighted laughter bursts out of his mouth, causing him to double over and clutch his side.

Malfoy just narrows his eyes and continues his failing attempts to get the offending glitter off himself. But after a few moments, their eyes meet and Malfoy cracks too, a soft laugh escaping his lips.

“Just shut up and go get me my coffee,” Malfoy says as he picks up the metal napkin dispenser from the table, eyeing his reflection and trying to hide his smile.

So Harry goes and gets their usual orders, accepting one of the free, heart-shaped sugar cookies just to see Malfoy glare at him again. 

When he returns, Malfoy still hasn’t managed to dislodge much of the glitter and appears to have given up at this point. Harry slides his coffee and the cookie across the table with an amused smile.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Malfoy.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Malfoy replies, before he picks up the cookie and takes a vicious bite, “I hate this holiday.”

Harry nods, “Yeah, me too,” he sips his frappuccino, savoring the sweet caramel taste, “So, any big plans tonight?”

“No, Astoria has a date,” Malfoy waggles his eyebrows suggestively, “and I’m dropping Scorp off with my mother, he’s staying with her for the weekend.”

Harry knows that Malfoy and Astoria’s marriage is by no means traditional, still he’s always a little caught off guard at the ease with which Malfoy talks about his wife seeing other men. Harry wonders what kind of arrangement they have. 

_Does Malfoy go on dates?_

Harry chooses not to acknowledge the surge of jealously he feels at the thought. But he can’t ignore the image his traitor mind conjures up—him and Malfoy out on a date, walking hand in hand, Harry pressing his lips against Malfoy’s at the end of the night.

He quickly shakes the mental visual away and clears his throat.

“I’m on my own tonight too,” Harry says, chewing on his straw, “Gin has the boys. You know,” Harry pauses, wondering if he’s really about to ask Malfoy to spend Valentine’s Day with him, “You could come by. I was gonna make my famous chili.”

Malfoy seems a little surprised by the invitation, which is ridiculous. They’ve had dinner together a number of times by now, hell they see each other nearly everyday. It isn’t that strange of Harry to offer.

Malfoy takes a drink of his coffee, stalling, before he finally nods, “Alright. That sounds good.”

“Great, just come on over whenever,” Harry says, and nerves flutter in his stomach, like pixies dancing around, at the thought of an evening alone with Malfoy.

_So much for not making a big deal about it Potter._

They spend a lot of time together, that’s true, but there’s usually someone else there, whether it be the patrons at the coffee shop or a combination of the boys and Astoria. Something about the whole thing seems significant to Harry and he worries that inviting Malfoy over for dinner on a notoriously romantic day, might’ve been the wrong thing to do.

The truth is, Harry wishes it could be a date, he longs to do all kinds of sappy, romantic things for Malfoy. Harry spends a lot of his free time daydreaming about all the new places he could take him, all the Muggle things he could introduce him to, all the ways he could show Malfoy how much he cares about him. 

But they’re just that, daydreams, meaningless fantasies unlikely to come to fruition. And no matter how badly Harry wishes they could become reality, he’s pretty sure they never will. 

. . .

Later that evening, Harry stands at the kitchen counter, laying out the ingredients that will soon become a spicy, hearty chili, perfect for the cold February night.

He’s just picking up his wand to light the burner and start browning the ground turkey when the Floo roars to life. Malfoy steps through, dusting himself off and offering Harry a smile.

Instead of a hello, Malfoy says, “You haven’t even started cooking it yet?”

Harry rolls his eyes, placing the large pot on the burner and turning up the heat, “I thought you could help.”

Malfoy’s eyes go comically wide as he shakes his head.

“I can’t cook, Potter. You know this,” Malfoy insists, removing his shoes and tucking them in the corner out of the way. 

Malfoy looks good tonight, Harry thinks, dressed in faded jeans and a blue jumper. Then again, Harry always thinks Malfoy looks good, whether he’s wearing Wizard robes or Muggle designer clothes or even that one time Harry showed up at the Manor earlier than usual and caught Malfoy still in his pajamas. But this is his favorite, when Malfoy looks casual, comfortable, _soft._

“You can cook. I’ve seen you cook,” Harry states, beginning to dice the onion and firmly ignoring how much he wants to wrap Malfoy up in his arms and never let go.

“No, you’ve seen me reheat things. There’s a difference,” Malfoy says but he moves closer, definitely interested in what Harry’s doing.

“You brew potions all day, it’s literally the same thing,” Harry retorts, adding the onion and once again feeling thankful to Molly Weasley for teaching him the spell that keeps his eyes from burning.

“Oh, you’re one of those people,” Malfoy drawls, his tone teasing. He’s migrated even closer to Harry now, looking over his shoulder. Harry tries to focus on what he’s doing and not on the way his body lights up, tingly and hyperaware of Malfoy’s close proximity, “I should have known you’d be one of _those_ people.”

“One of what people?” Harry asks with a sigh. He selects a pepper and begins to chop, sliding another towards Malfoy along with a knife, “There, give it a try.”

“Fine,” Malfoy agrees, watching Harry for a moment before copying his motions, “You’re one of those people who think cooking and potions are the same. They’re vaguely similar at most. Plus, if they were exactly the same you’d have been better at potions.”

Harry smiles, pretty sure there’s a compliment in there somewhere.

“I was in sixth year,” Harry replies. He realizes what he’s said a moment later and wants to bite off his tongue.

There are a lot of things they avoid talking about but sixth year is something that has weighed on Harry’s conscience. He never apologized and the one time he tried, Malfoy’s face had closed off before he told Harry to drop it.

Malfoy surprises him by easily saying, “You cheated in sixth year.”

Well, it’s technically true.

Harry just shrugs and lets the subject go. He adds the peppers—a sweet red and jalapeño—the garlic and a variety of spices to the pot giving it a thorough stir. The smells of the spicy mixture are already invading the kitchen, making Harry’s stomach rumble in anticipation.

Just as Harry is instructing Malfoy on the next step, the Floo flares green and Hermione and Ron step out a second later.

Well. This should be fun.

“Harry, we just got done with dinner, thought we’d stop...by...and—“ Hermione’s words slow and trail off when she finally looks up and sees Draco Malfoy standing in Harry’s kitchen.

Of course, Ron chimes in next, “What the hell is _he_ doing in your bloody kitchen?”

Hermione elbows Ron before looking to Harry for an explanation. 

Harry isn’t keeping his friendship with Malfoy a secret, he’s told Ron and Hermione about it, he was just sketchy on the details. 

“We’re making chili,” Harry answers, because what else can he say? The truth is too complicated and is definitely not something Harry can talk about with Malfoy standing right there.

“Yes, we can see that,” Hermione says slowly, her eyes flicking back and forth between them with a knowing look that Harry doesn’t like one bit. 

Malfoy steps forward then, holding out a hand, a tight smile on his face. Ron looks ready to pull his wand but Hermione, bless her, accepts the handshake, returning Malfoy’s smile with a small one of her own.

“It’s nice to see you Granger,” Malfoy says, friendly enough, but Harry can hear the tension underneath the light tone. 

Malfoy is standing ram rod straight, his shoulders almost to his ears and Harry has to fight the urge to run a soothing hand down his back.

“It’s Granger-Weasley now, but you can just call me Hermione.”

“Draco,” Malfoy offers with a nod, and this time when he smiles at Hermione it’s a little less manic. He offers his hand to Ron next, who just stares at it with wide eyes. Malfoy eventually lowers his hand and steps back closer to Harry. 

Hermione elbows Ron again.

“Oi! That hurts,” Ron exclaims, rubbing his side, “Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on here.”

“Draco and Harry are making chili, Ron. Keep up,” Hermione replies flippantly, “We didn’t mean to interrupt. We just wanted to drop these off.”

Hermione shoves her arm into her handbag, digging around. After a few seconds she produces a handful of chocolate frogs, which she sets down on the table. 

“Thanks,” Harry says with a grateful smile. It’s a running tradition that Hermione brings Harry chocolate frogs on Valentine’s Day. Harry probably should have expected it.

“Of course,” Hermione says, striding forward to wrap her arms around Harry, “Happy Valentine's Day. We’ll get out of your hair now.”

“You’re welcome to stay,” Harry offers.

“No, no. We have to go pick up Rose. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Hermione grabs Ron by his arm and drags him towards the fireplace, “It was nice seeing you, Draco.”

“Bye Harry,” Ron calls over his shoulder, still sounding completely baffled and a touch concerned. 

Seconds later, Hermione and a grumbling Ron disappear into the flames.

The tension in the room is heavy and Harry has no idea what to say. He doesn’t want the night to be ruined but really, all things considered, that could have gone much worse than it did. 

“Well, that was interesting,” Malfoy says with a laugh, making the tension snap, like a rubber band pulled too tight, and suddenly they’re back on steady ground.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, running a hand through his hair and turning back to the stove, “Ron’s uh, well I think he was just surprised. I mean, he knows we’re friends but,” Harry tries to explain with a shrug.

“But there’s a difference between you telling him and him seeing it for himself?”

“Yeah, yeah exactly. He’ll come around,” Harry promises, giving in to the need to touch Malfoy and squeezing his shoulder lightly.

“So, what’s next?”

They finish making the chili and when it has simmered for long enough, they take bowls into the living room to eat while they watch a movie. It strikes Harry how domestic this all is. Cooking together, eating together in front of the telly. These are things couples do. Harry supposes friends do so too, and maybe it’s just his stupid brain that keeps making the connection between Malfoy and romance. 

Either way, it’s the best Valentine’s Day Harry can remember having in a long time. 

. . . 

Malfoy stays at Harry’s house until late, not Flooing home until well after midnight. Harry trudges up the stairs to his bedroom, quickly stripping out of his clothes and crashing into bed. 

Sleep comes easy and fast. But then the dreams start. 

It isn’t uncommon for Harry to have nightmares, more so now that he sleeps alone in his big bed, but tonight there are no nightmares, only vivid dreams. The kind of dreams where you’re aware you’re dreaming but go along with it anyway. 

At first it’s just flashes of soft blonde hair and heated blue-grey eyes. Then the dream shifts and there’s Malfoy, sitting beside Harry on the sofa. The room around them is blurry, just static on the edges of his vision, but Harry knows that his brain is replicating the scene from earlier that night.

Harry and Malfoy sitting with their bodies flush against one another, some raunchy comedy George suggested playing on the telly. Shoulders, arms and thighs all touching. Every time Malfoy takes a breath in, Harry can feel his rib cage expand. 

They’re so close, though still so far from where Harry wants to be. 

As if he’s in charge of the narrative of the dream and somehow able to read Harry’s mind, Malfoy turns to him with a smirk as he swings one long leg over Harry’s lap, straddling him. It’s instinct, natural, that his hands should be gripping Malfoy’s sharp hip bones, pressing and squeezing, keeping Malfoy right where he wants him. Right where he belongs. 

Yes, Harry knows this is a dream but he can’t help himself. He wants to enjoy the illusion. 

Malfoy is looking down at him with a soft look of affection on his face. Then the corner of those full lips twitch up and there’s that smirk. It’s mischievous but Harry isn’t worried. He has nothing to fear. Whether awake or asleep, Harry trusts him. He knows he’ll let Malfoy do whatever he likes, surrender himself to it. 

Harry tries to communicate this with his eyes, silently urging Malfoy to take what he wants. 

Dream Malfoy must understand because in the next moment he takes Harry’s wrists in each of his hands, pinning them to the back of the sofa, pushing them down until Harry can feel the strength of grip. Until he can feel the magic crackling right beneath those pale fingers.

Malfoy starts to move, slowly rutting down against Harry, the hard length of his cock rubbing against Harry’s own. Malfoy’s movements are teasing, patient, as if Harry isn’t sitting there burning from the inside out. 

Harry quickly grows impatient with the slow pace and bucks his own hips up desperately, a whine escaping his mouth. Malfoy releases one of his wrists and his free hand goes to Harry’s hair, tugging and pulling, tilting Harry’s head just so, and then Malfoy’s mouth descends on his neck. It leaves a trail of buzzing and burning in its wake. Harry feels the nip of teeth, a caress of tongue and his mind blanks out for a second. 

Malfoy’s mouth is warm and wet and soft. Perfect. Harry wants it to move lower on his body, while at the same time he never wants Malfoy to stop what he’s doing.

Once again, as if reading his thoughts, Malfoy shimmies backwards off the sofa, kneeling in between Harry’s spread legs, his hands running gently against Harry’s thighs, the muscles tensing under his hands. 

“Shirt off,” Malfoy says, his voice raspy and commanding. Goosebumps break out on Harry’s arms. He’ll do anything Malfoy wants. _Anything._

Harry obeys quickly, yanking the shirt off and not caring that the movement knocks his glasses from his face. He moans quietly as the cold air hits his chest, making his nipples pebble.

Malfoy leans in at the noise, like he wants to hear it better, like he wants to keep all of Harry’s moans of pleasure for himself. Their gazes meet and god, Harry could drown in those stormy eyes. Malfoy looks like he wants to devour Harry, and he does just that, leaning even closer and attaching his mouth to Harry’s chest, sucking and kissing his skin until all Harry can register is the feeling of lips and teeth and tongue. 

The whimper of protest that leaves him as Malfoy pulls back is a sound he’s sure he’s never made before, whether awake or dreaming. It’s needy. Vulnerable.

If someone doesn’t touch his cock soon, he’s going to lose his mind. He doesn’t care if it’s Malfoy or his own hand, he just needs more. He’s been teetering on the edge since Malfoy straddled him and he can’t wait any longer. Harry’s ready to jump off the cliff and fall to the sea of pleasure below.

“I know,” Malfoy soothes, his voice still raspy but comforting in a way that makes another whimper fall from Harry’s mouth. 

Harry’s forgetting that this is a dream, that knowledge slipping further and further away the more Malfoy touches him. It feels real. Could his brain really think this up? Maybe Malfoy never left, maybe this is really happening. 

Harry doesn’t care either way, he just wants Malfoy to make him come. And then he wants to return the favor. He wants Malfoy beneath him, wants to taste him, worship him. Wants to learn his body as intimately as he can. 

“Please,” Harry begs and he doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s wrecked, cracking at the end of his plea.

Malfoy considers him for a moment, his eyes raking over Harry’s body, taking in the sight of him breathless and begging, and then he nods.

“Since you asked so nicely,” Malfoy drawls casually, his deft fingers popping the button on Harry’s jeans, “Lift up.”

Harry does and Malfoy drags his jeans and boxers down slowly. The denim rubs against Harry’s thighs making his cock jerk, the wet tip bouncing against his stomach. 

Malfoy licks his lips and slowly leans forward. 

_Oh god._ Malfoy’s going to—he’s—his mouth—

Harry jolts awake, ripped suddenly from sleep and shoved back to reality. He’s in bed, alone, the blankets twisted around his legs. His shirt is sticking to his skin uncomfortably, sweat soaking through the fabric.

As Harry’s eyes adjust to the dark of his bedroom, he realizes that he’s hard and leaking, a wet patch forming on the front of his sleep pants. A light breeze would set him off right now, and he’s never been so happy to be alone in the house.

He quickly pushes his pants down, mumbling a lubrication charm, and takes his cock in hand. 

He thinks back to the dream and lets the rest play out behind his eyelids. 

_Malfoy’s mouth enveloping him in wet heat. His cheeks hollowing out as he sucks and licks. Harry’s hand tangled in that blonde hair. Malfoy’s lips, red and slick, sliding up and down._

Harry revels in the fantasy, his hand stroking faster, hips fucking up into his fist.

_Malfoy’s long fingers inside him, stretching him. That smart mouth whispering filthy words into Harry’s skin as he pushes inside, hard and thick and unrelenting._

And then, the Malfoy in his fantasy says _Come for me, Potter_, and Harry does, feet flat against the mattress, his body arching up into it, Draco’s name on his lips. 

_Draco_ not Malfoy. 

“Fuck,” Harry murmurs to himself. He tries to catch his breath but his heart feels like it’s about to break free from his chest.

This—whatever it is—with Malfoy is slowly stealing his sanity.

His grip on reality and his feelings for Malfoy are slipping faster and faster out of his control. The more time he spends with Malfoy, the more he wants him, and Harry doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to hold out. The desire to surrender is like an itch beneath his skin that he can’t reach.

As he stares at the ceiling, his breathing still too quick, Harry realizes that of all the places Malfoy’s mouth had touched in his dream, their lips never met. Harry longs, even if it’s only an image his unconscious mind produces, to know what it’s like to kiss Malfoy. To have that mouth against his own. He thinks they would fit together perfectly, just as they do in so many other ways.

Harry’s in too deep now. There’s no going back. Somehow, when Harry wasn’t looking, this small crush, the harmless attraction, took on a life of its own. Growing into something more solid day after day. 

“I’m halfway in love with him already,” Harry says to himself, needing to admit it, to say the words out loud, even if there’s no one there to hear them.

Harry can’t think about what this means, not now, with the dream version of Malfoy still so clear in his mind. It can be a problem for later. Something for tomorrow Harry to deal with. He pushes the thoughts to the back of his mind, firmly locking the lid to that box he’s designed for all things Malfoy. 

But, no matter how hard he tries, Harry can’t fall back asleep for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week has been crazy so I haven't had a chance to reply to the comments on the last chapter yet, but I hope you guys know I appreciate them so much! I have two more chapters to write and then this fic should be complete!! I might start posting more often once I get them done, if that's something people would want. Maybe twice a week? Let me know what you think :)
> 
> thanks for reading <3


	6. March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some light angst and Lucius Malfoy being an asshole.

Draco’s feet touch down on the uneven ground outside of Azkaban. The sea is raging around the small island, waves crashing against the rocks and spraying foul smelling water up around him.

The sky above is dark and gloomy, the way it always seems to be here regardless of the season, and Draco can already feel the despair seeping out from the walls of the fortress that stands tall and foreboding in front of him.

There’s been a lot of changes to the prison since the end of the war but it’s still an unpleasant place to visit. Draco wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for his mother. She insists that he visit his father at least twice a year, using guilt to motivate Draco to follow through. 

It’s been nearly eight months since the last time he spent a truly awful afternoon with his father, and Draco doesn’t expect this time to go any better than the last. 

He reminds himself that he’s doing this to make his mother happy, squares his shoulders and slams down his mental walls, shielding his mind from any invasion. Even with the dementors gone, it’s still hard to hold his occlumency in place as the toxic magic practically buzzes in the air around him. 

This place was used by a wizard who practiced the worse kind of dark magic, years and years passing by before anyone even knew it was here. And then there were the dementors, and the prisoners came. Draco thinks someone should have burnt the place to the ground a long time ago but he knows it’s not that simple. He’d bet his last Galleon that the prison is sentient. 

That thought, along with the wind whipping around him, makes a shiver shoot down his spine. With every step forward he feels more and more uneasy. 

When Draco goes inside he is immediately met by an Auror guard, and he wonders to himself why anyone in their right mind would want to work in a place like this. He gives his name and signs the visitors log. He’s forced to leave his wand in a lock box, along with all his other personal belongings. 

As he steps through the single door that leads to the area of the prison where the inmates are housed, Draco feels wards shimmer over his skin. They’re similar to those in Gringotts and will strip the influence of any potion or charms. Another new measure implemented under Shaklebolt.

Draco’s led down a hall and into a room, designated by a small sign as Visitation Room 4. He goes in and takes a seat at the table, the only piece of furniture inside. The paint is peeling from the walls, little flakes chipping off and falling to the floor, which doesn’t look like it’s been cleaned in decades. 

The guard goes to retrieve his father and Draco takes a moment to breathe carefully in and out, counting backwards from ten inside his head. He needs to be in complete control of himself when his father comes in. Lucius Malfoy can identify a weak spot and exploit it in a matter of seconds. Even after years in Azkaban, his mind is still sharp. 

When Lucius enters the room a few minutes later, the thought that he looks much the same as he did towards the end of the war hits Draco square in the chest. The stringy hair and hollow look in his eyes betrays his outward air of confidence. The dull brown prisoner robes don’t help.

His father isn’t that old, not by Wizarding standards anyway. But Draco can’t get over how much the time spent inside these walls has aged him. The strong, confident father of his early childhood nothing but a ghost of a memory now. 

“Hello father,” Draco greets, standing from the table.

“Draco,” his father says as the guard closes the door, “Nice of you to visit. Finally.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been rather busy,” Draco replies as he sits back down, refusing to feel bad about the long time in between visits. His mother does this horrible routine once a month and Draco doesn’t think his father deserves anywhere close to that much.

“You look…well,” his father says, the sneer on his face contradicting his words.

Draco had purposely worn his brightest jumper along with Muggle jeans just to see his father look at him with distaste. He has to get his amusement when he can after all.

“Thank you,” Draco manages to say with a straight face, “How have you been?”

His father gives him a flat look and hisses out, “How do you think I’ve been?” 

Draco has to bite his cheek and hold back the _You brought this on yourself_ that wants to roll off his tongue. He drops any pretense of having a normal conversation with his father and just sits there silently instead. 

Eventually, his father speaks, asking after Scorpius. Draco jumps onto the subject with enthusiasm and tells him everything that Scorp has been up to lately. Draco recognizes the proud look that tilts his fathers lips. He saw it himself many times as a small child. But the older he got, the more his father looked at him with disdain and disappointment. Draco was never the son that Lucius Malfoy wanted.

The conversation flows easily for a few minutes but then his father complains about how Draco refuses to bring Scorpius to visit, and the backhanded insults start.

“The boy needs positive male influences in his life, Draco,” Lucius insists. Draco ignores the slight and snorts at the fact that his father thinks _he_ would count as a positive influence on Scorpius.

“And you think you could be one?” Draco asks snidely. The days where he sat back and took his fathers shit long over. 

“Obviously,” Lucius answers, and Draco thinks with his fathers skewed worldview he probably truly believes that he would be. Lucius has never been one to acknowledge his own flaws or take responsibility for his actions. 

That old anger that Draco keeps buried rises to the surface and suddenly he has a strong urge to list all the ways his father has fucked up his life, his mothers life, his own. He wants to yell and scream at the unfairness of it all. 

Instead, Draco says, “Scorpius has plenty of positive influences in his life already,” and he could stop there but something pushes him to antagonize his father, even though he knows the end result will be him storming home in a fit of rage, “He’s been spending a lot of time with the Potters’.”

Draco watches as his father’s face contorts. You would think that his father would feel gratitude towards Potter, considering he’s the only reason Draco isn’t sitting in a cell too. But Lucius still holds Potter responsible for his loss of power and status.

Draco prepares himself for the backlash but it never comes. His father just smirks meanly and looks at Draco like they’re both in on a some big joke.

“I never thought I’d say this, but I’m impressed, Draco,” Lucius says. His hands are restrained but he can still push the hair back from his face. The movement gives Draco a clear view of his fathers pale blue eyes sparkling in the dull light, “Using Potter to improve the Malfoy image is a smart move. Have you been seen in public together?”

Draco stares at his father, completely blindsided by this reaction. Really though, he should have expected his father to think that he was using Potter, playing a game in which he had the advantage.

“I have no ulterior motives. We’re friends, our sons are friends,” Draco snaps angrily, “I’m not trying to _use_ him.”

“Always so sensitive,” his father tuts, “No need to be so defensive Draco.”

“We’re friends,” Draco repeats, his words coming out sharper as his hands clench into fists beneath the table, “I care about him, and I really don’t appreciate what you’re implying.”

His father looks at him critically and a moment later his eyes widen, the pieces clicking into place. 

His parents aren’t naive. They always knew that Draco wasn’t interested in women. It wasn’t discussed often but when he turned fifteen his father had sat him down and told him, plain and simple, that he would be expected to marry a nice pureblood witch and continue the Malfoy line. If he wanted to have dalliances on the side, fine, as long as he was discreet. 

Draco could have ignored this duty. He almost did. But in the end, marrying Astoria seemed like the right thing to do. And while it was in line with his parents wishes, Draco knows that it was his decision. His choice. 

Draco has never minded his situation. He goes out from time to time. Finds a fit bloke in a bar, maybe dances or has a quickie in the loo. It suits his needs. He’s never been interested in something serious.

_Until recently,_ his brain whispers.

But Draco can’t think about that right now because his father is looking at him with disgust on his face, lips twisted and ears turning red.

“Draco, tell me you have not gone and done something as utterly stupid as falling for that idiot Potter,” Lucius demands, his fists straining against the Incarcerous. If his hands were free, Draco bets he’d be on the receiving end of a slap right now. 

“It’s not any of your business,” Draco says through gritted teeth, his own face flushing with anger. He decides to get the fuck out of there before the homophobic slurs start spewing from his fathers mouth, “I think that’s been enough of a visit for today,” Draco sneers as he roughly shoves his chair back from the table.

“You’re pathetic. Do you really think that Potter is a poof?” his father asks with a sharp laugh, “Even if he was, he’d never chose _you_ as a partner. You, a marked Death Eater, with the Wizarding worlds Golden Boy?” Lucius taunts.

Draco ignores the sick jolt his feels at the words and goes to pull the door open. Just as his fingers touch the handle, his father slams his fists down onto the table, the sound echoing around the small room.

Draco pauses and looks over his shoulder. His father is glaring at him with so much malice it makes Draco’s stomach twist, “Don’t you dare walk away from me.” 

Draco doesn’t know why he keeps coming back here, holding on to the hope that he could have a normal relationship with his father. He should have learned his lesson by now. It always ends the same.

“Fuck you,” Draco spits out, opening the door and storming out into the hallway. 

Adrenaline is pumping through his body, making his heartbeat pound in his ears and his hands shake throughout the entire process of signing out and retrieving his wand. Draco’s swinging quickly from anger at his father to self loathing and then back again. 

It’s a vicious cycle, and one that Draco is very familiar with. 

. . .

With his mind waging war on itself, Draco doesn’t even realize where he’s Disapparated to until he lands on familiar steps in front of a shabby townhouse. 

He’s going to splinch himself one day if he doesn’t start focusing. 

He should turn around and Apparate home. Astoria is good at dealing with him when he gets like this. Yes, Draco knows how he can be. Snappish, vindictive. He says things he doesn’t mean. Tries to make someone else hurt the way he is. 

Misery loves company after all.

But Draco certainly has no intention of dumping his baggage on Potter’s shoulders. He can’t unload all this on him. He should leave.

But his legs won’t corporate. Something keeps him standing there, frozen, probably the part of him that knows beyond that door lies comfort. Refuge from the anger and regret. Potter can make all of it fade away to nothing. Like the sun chasing rain clouds out of the sky.

Draco should leave. But he doesn’t want to. 

In the end, the choice is made for him when Potter opens the door, the smile on his face melting away when he gets a good look at Draco.

Potter doesn’t say anything, he just opens the door wider and steps back. 

Draco doesn’t say anything either, walking inside and standing there staring at Potter as if he holds all the answers. Potter stares back, a frown pulling his eyebrows together. His green eyes are jumping back and forth between Draco’s, probably looking for an explanation. 

Draco absentmindedly rubs at his left forearm, a nervous habit he’s tried many times to break. Potter’s eyes flick down at the movement and understanding crosses his face. Draco isn’t sure how much Potter really sees, he’s working on assumptions here, since Draco still has yet to say anything. He should probably do that. Explain.

But before he can even open his mouth, Potter pulls him forward into his arms, and all the words fly out of Draco’s brain.

This isn’t a half hug or a maybe hug. Not an almost hug.

It’s a real hug. Warm and calming, and even though Draco’s a good few inches taller, Potter seems to completely surround him. His arms are tight around Draco’s body, one hand firmly gripping the back of his head to guide it closer. 

Draco doesn’t know how long they stand there like that, wrapped around each other. Potter blocks out the rest of the world, time passing is the furthest thing from Draco’s mind. Draco lets himself melt into the embrace, resting his head on Potter’s shoulder.

Potter doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t tell Draco that everything will be okay, doesn’t bother with meaningless sentiments. He just hugs back tighter and whispers the same words over and over again. _I’ve got you._

And he does. Draco feels caught, stuck in a sticky web, his will to break free crumbling before his eyes. 

Feeling both protected and trapped, Draco can only stand there as emotions collide violently in his chest, wrapping up around his throat like a heavy chain and tightening. Suddenly, his breaths start coming quicker, his heart rate jumps into high gear, and Draco knows he has to get out of here. 

Draco Malfoy has no business being in Harry Potter’s house, he has no right to take comfort from Potter. He doesn’t deserve it. People like him aren’t meant to feel this way. His father is right, Draco will never belong in Potter’s arms, and the realization has his muscles finally unlocking. Draco jerks back, words already tumbling out of his mouth.

“I have to go,” Draco says, staggering back another step, “I shouldn’t have shown up here like this. It was terribly rude. I—“

“Malfoy, stop. You don’t need to leave,” Potter says hurriedly, he takes a step closer and Draco feels a lump form in his throat, “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“You have no idea what I need,” Draco snaps. Everything is crashing down around him, conflicting emotions running rampant through his body. This whole idea that he could be Potter’s friend, that they could be more, that Draco could actually be happy—was so _stupid._ It was always going to end. Draco thinks it’s better to get it over with now, “You don’t know anything about me, Potter,” the name rolls off his tongue with so much venom that Potter actually steps back. 

“Please don’t do this. You don’t have to push me away,” Potter says earnestly. He runs a hand through his hair and charges on, “And don’t say that I don’t know you, because I do. I fucking _know_ you. I see what you’re trying to do right now and I’m not gonna let you, Draco,” Potter steps forward again as Draco’s brain shorts out at the sound of his name leaving Potter’s lips. 

Suddenly, Potter is crowding him against the wall and Draco means to tell him to fuck off, but then Potter’s hands are coming up to cup his face, and his mouth snaps shut. 

“Just shut up for once in your life and breathe,” Potter says, and he’s standing so close. 

Draco squeezes his eyes shut, but he can feel Potter’s body pressing into him gently, can feel his warm breath on his face, the calluses on his hands, his magic buzzing against the flushed skin of Draco’s cheeks.

Draco _can’t_ breathe, though. His lungs have taken an impromptu holiday, leaving him to suffocate, silent and frozen. 

“Draco, look at me. Please,” Potter says and it’s too much. 

“No,” Draco gasps out, yanking himself sideways and out of Potter’s grip, “I have to go. Don’t follow me, Potter.”

Draco turns away and forces his legs to carry him back out the door and into the chilly evening air.

The hurt flashing in bright green eyes is the last thing he sees before he Apparates away with a crack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry things will get resolved quickly in the next chapter! 
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	7. April

Two weeks. It has been _two bloody weeks_ since Harry has seen or spoken to Draco.

It’s torture. Every day that passes is slowly chipping away at his hope that Draco will show up on his doorstep again and things will go back to normal. 

Harry knew that Draco had become a big part of his life. But Draco’s absence has made Harry realize just how important he’s really become. Harry feels lost without him. Drifting along through the days without any sense of purpose or direction. Like a broken compass, needle spinning in endless circles.

And Harry doesn’t know what to do to fix it.

It’s not a feeling he’s familiar with. Harry has always faced things straight on, running in headfirst and figuring it out as he went. But he knows that won’t work this time, knows that it'll only push Draco further away.

So, Harry has waited at morning drop off and afternoon pick up, nervously chewing his lip with his eyes fixed on the Floo, willing a blonde head to emerge. He’s sat for hours in Starbucks, drinking more coffee than is strictly necessary, getting more jittery by the minute. He’s wrote letter after letter, his owl becoming more cross with each trip to Wiltshire, while his letters return unopened. 

And yet, his attempts have yielded no results. It’s as if Draco has dropped off the edge of the Earth, slipped right through Harry’s fingers and disappeared.

Part of Harry wants to be angry with Draco, wants to tap into that old hatred, to just move on with his life and forget all about the last six months. But he can’t. 

And the worse part is, this isn’t just affecting him. Draco and Scorpius have become fixtures in his and the boys lives. If he has to look at Albus’ sad puppy dog face one more time as he asks why Scorpius can’t come over to play, Harry’s going to scream. And the thought that this is somehow his fault, that Harry’s responsible for messing this up—it’s too much.

While it certainly wouldn’t be the first time Harry was confronted with an upset Draco Malfoy and preceded to fuck it up beyond repair, the logical part of his brain knows that this is classic Draco. Lashing out and pushing him away. 

Harry just needs to come up with a way to get him back. 

Well, not get him back exactly, because as much as Harry wants it, Draco was never his to begin with. He has no claim on Draco, no matter how badly he wishes things were different.

So maybe his current plan is overstepping, crossing a line he shouldn’t cross. But as he sits in the uncomfortable chair outside of Astoria’s office he doesn’t regret his decision. Harry’s done waiting for Draco to come to him, he needs to act, to do something. And to be honest, Harry has missed Astoria too.

“Mr. Potter,” Astoria’s assistant says and Harry stands, nervous energy thrumming through his shaky legs, “Mrs. Malfoy will see you now. Just go on back.”

Harry nods jerkily, “Thanks.”

He steps through the door and into Astoria’s office, his eyes sweeping the room. The office is big, with plenty of space for the impressive mahogany desk, two armchairs, and the bookshelves crammed full of thick volumes on Magical Law and Ethics. The walls are decorated with photographs and artwork, along with a framed degree from a Muggle university.

Astoria herself is sitting behind the desk, a mess of files and paperwork spread out in front of her. She has a smile on her face as she greets him, but Harry doesn’t miss the sad gleam in her brown eyes. He doesn’t doubt for one minute that she knows exactly why he’s here.

“Harry, it’s so good to see you,” Astoria says, standing and crossing the room to pull him into a hug.

“Yeah, you too,” Harry replies as he pulls back and nervously looks around.

“Sit, please,” she offers, waving a hand at one of the chairs, “What can I do for you?”

Harry sits and runs his hands through his hair, trying to formulate a response other than _I think I’m falling in love with your husband. Help me._ Because he can’t say that. 

A minute passes silently, and still Harry can’t come up with anything, all the words his mind produces either ridiculous or inappropriate. 

“Harry, listen,” Astoria says with a sigh. She’s sitting in the chair beside him, her small hands folded primly in her lap, “If you’re here to ask me to talk to Draco, you should know I’ve already tried. He’s being ridiculously stubborn about the whole thing.”

Harry is beyond grateful that she spoke up first, and straight to the point. But her words are exactly what he was afraid of. If she can’t get through to Draco then Harry doesn’t have a chance. 

“I miss him,” Harry admits, his face immediately flushing with heat. He swallows thickly and forces the words out, “I don’t want to lose him, Astoria.”

Harry expects to be laughed at, or maybe looked at like he’s insane. What he doesn’t expect is the smile that spreads across Astoria’s face.

“I knew you felt the same way about him,” she says, the smile turning smug as Harry splutters.

“What?” Harry asks, coughing to clear his throat, “What do you mean ‘the same way’?”

“Oh don’t even try to play dumb, Harry. You’ve been dancing around each other for months. I’ve seen the way you two look at one another, _just friends_ don’t look at each other like that,” Astoria replies, shaking her head like she can’t believe she has to spell it out for him, “I was giving him until the end of the week and then I was taking matters into my own hands. But here you are.”

Harry stares at her with wide eyes, “Wait, what? But you said he wouldn’t listen,” somehow he manages to get the words out, which is impressive he thinks, considering his ears are filled with static and his tongue feels too big for his mouth.

Merlin and Morgana. _Draco feels the same way._

“I said that he won’t listen _to me_,” Astoria states, confusing Harry further and apparently unaware of the affect her words are having on him. His heart feels like it might be in serious danger of giving out, “His father—well I’m not completely sure what he did. But Draco came home from visiting him and…” she shrugs, and Harry doesn’t miss the flash of anger in her eyes, “Draco isn’t the easiest person to talk to when he’s hurting. But I can’t just sit by and watch him spiral.” 

Astoria reaches over and takes his hand, squeezing it hard, “You’re his chance at happiness Harry. And he deserves it, whether he thinks so or not.”

So Lucius fucking Malfoy is the one to blame for this. That piece of information makes rage burn in Harry’s stomach. He wants to storm into Azkaban and give that snooty bastard a piece of his mind. But that won’t be helpful. Astoria seems to have a plan. 

Right. Focus on the plan now, kill Lucius later.

Harry takes a deep breath and nods, “Alright. So what should I do?”

“I’m going to take Scorpius to visit my parents this weekend. I’ll make sure the wards are open to you before I leave. You come over to the Manor and tell him how you feel. _Make_ him listen.”

“How in the fuck am I supposed to do that?” Harry squeaks out, his voice raising in pitch. This sounds like a sure fire-way to die of embarrassment, while simultaneously being tossed out on his arse. 

“He might be stubborn but I’ve heard you’re pretty stubborn yourself,” Astoria answers with a smile, “Just tell him the truth, Harry. He’ll listen.”

Harry thinks this is mad. When has Draco Malfoy ever listened to him? 

But Harry knows he’s going do it anyways. 

“Alright. Fuck it,” Harry finally agrees, rubbing a hand over his face, “I’ll try.”

. . .

The Floo powder is gritty between his fingers, the feeling of it rubbing roughly against his skin grounds him to the moment.

Harry’s going to fix this mess with Draco. Well, if he can find his voice and actually call out the address that is. He’s been standing in front of his fireplace for ten minutes, trying to work up the courage to step into the flames. 

What a sad excuse of a Gryffindor he is. Standing here frozen like a terrified first year. It’s honestly a bit pathetic, and Harry’s glad no one’s around to see him flounder. 

As the clock on the wall loudly ticks the minutes away, Harry tries to settle his nerves. He’s half afraid he’s just going to word vomit all the feelings he’s been holding back right onto Draco as soon as he sees him. 

Yes, it’s highly likely that he’s about to fuck this up, and Harry really doesn’t want to end up with his bollocks hexed off. But he clears his throat anyway and finally calls out “Malfoy Manor.”

He tumbles out into the drawing room seconds later, quickly straightening his clothes and dusting himself off. Before he even has a chance to glance around and get his bearings, Harry hears footsteps approaching from down the hall.

Draco comes into view a minute later and Harry’s breath catches in his throat. Merlin, Harry’s missed him. Draco looks so soft; dressed in black jeans and a too big jumper, his hair curling around his ears the way it does when he’s been standing over a cauldron all day. 

Harry watches as an array of emotions play over those sharp features. Draco’s face finally lands on shock, which quickly morphs to anger.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Potter? How did you even get in?”

And yeah, that hurts. Harry knew Draco wasn’t going to react well to him unexpectedly showing up but a small part of him had hoped that Draco would be pleased to see him. Over the last few days his brain has conjured up countless images of a happy reunion between them, Draco running into his arms and a whole mess of other clichéd nonsense. 

Harry shakes his head at himself and his ridiculous fantasies. Real life doesn’t work that way.

“I need to talk to you,” Harry finally manages to answer. He takes a few steps closer, hating the way Draco watches him wearily, when only a few weeks ago he was so comfortable around Harry.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Draco says, his voice is cutting and sharp, but his eyes give him away, “We were friends and now we’re not. There’s nothing to discuss and I really don’t appreciate you showing up here uninvited.”

“Draco,” Harry says calmly, taking another cautious step closer. They’re only a few feet apart now. Close enough that Harry could reach out and touch, but he won’t. Not yet, “Just listen, please. I have to tell you something and I want to make sure you understand. And then I’ll leave, if that’s what you really want.”

Draco rolls his eyes, “Fine, Potter. Just get on with it. I have potions to get back to,” he says snidely, but Harry won’t let himself be intimidated.

“It’s pretty simple actually,” Harry says, taking one more step closer. He can feel Draco’s magic buzzing around them, his own magic reaching out towards it, “I miss you. I’ve been going crazy without you—and I want you back.”

Draco’s mouth parts and his eyes widen, the angry flush that stains his cheeks starts to darken and spread down his neck. Harry wants to know how far down it goes. But he’s not thinking about that right now.

“What,” Draco looks away and clears his throat, “What are you talking about? I’m not _yours_, Potter. You don’t want—“

Harry cuts him off, “Yes. I do want. I want you, Draco, in whatever way I can have you.”

“You don’t mean that. This really isn’t funny,” Draco snaps. Harry sees the fear in Draco’s eyes, but he also sees something that just might be hope too.

“You have no idea how much I mean it. You’ve been taking up space in my head since the day you tumbled out of that fireplace and back into my life. Probably a lot longer than that if I’m being honest. What I’m trying to say is—I’m completely fucking mad about you, Draco. I understand if you don’t feel the same way, but I think you do.”

Draco’s eyes fall shut at his words and Harry closes the last bit of distance between them. His hands come up and gently frame Draco’s face, tilting it down towards him as he leans in. Draco brings his own hands up and clutches tightly at Harry’s wrists.

Harry stops, his lips hovering over Draco’s, “I’m gonna kiss you now. If you don’t want me to, you better do something to stop me,” Harry whispers, and Draco’s eyes fly open, a thousand questions swimming in their depths.

Time creeps by slowly in the seconds before their lips meet, the tension between them building higher and higher. Then suddenly, all the choices that led here, to this moment, finally converge and explode.

Kissing Draco is like the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening. Like flowers blooming in spring and snow falling in winter. It’s inevitably. It was always leading here, to this—Draco’s soft lips moving firmly against his own. Hands grasping and pulling, holding each other impossibly close.

It’s warm and wet and perfect. And Harry never wants it to stop. All his doubts and fear drift away and he’s filled instead with the promise of what’s to come. 

Harry tries to pour everything he has into the kiss, all the feelings he’s held back over the last few months. He’s afraid they're going to drown in all the things that have went unsaid, that this is the only way to communicate it without suffocating beneath the weight. 

And now that he has the taste of Draco on his lips, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get rid of it. He’ll never be able to forget this feeling, his mind already storing it away for safe keeping. Harry savors it, enjoying all the sensations, cataloging every one.

Draco’s hands are in his hair now, carding through it and tugging, maneuvering Harry’s head to just where he wants it, allowing him to deepen the kiss. Draco’s tongue moves in his mouth, almost filthy in the way it rolls against his own, and all Harry can do is try to give as good as he gets.

When they finally pull back, the smile that stretches Draco’s kiss-reddened lips nearly brings him to his knees.

Harry is used to seeing Draco smile these days but he’s never seen _this_ smile. It’s like sunshine, brightening everything it touches and bringing all the colors in the world into sharp focus. And Harry is the one responsible, he’s the one who put it there. A strong surge of satisfaction washes over him at the thought. 

There’s nothing he wants more than to be allowed to continue putting smiles like that on Draco’s face.

He leans back in and captures Draco's lips again. Gives himself over to it fully, and feels—maybe for the first time in his life—that he’s exactly where he’s meant to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8 will be posted tomorrow :)


	8. May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kind of ran away from me a bit, so this update is longer than usual! It picks up right where the last chapter ended. Enjoy <3

Potter’s kissing him.

Draco feels like he’s floating away up into the clouds, leaving everything—every regret, every insecurity—behind on the ground. He feels weightless. Free.

He can’t believe he’s waited so long to learn Potter’s taste, that he’s been living his life without knowing the softness of Potter’s lips or the way he kisses with reckless abandon.

Kissing Harry Potter is like standing in a pit of fire—all consuming, and Draco’s happily burning with it.

The hand Potter has resting on his lower back dips down under his shirt just as his tongue does something complicated in Draco’s mouth, and rough fingertips finally touch skin. Draco’s nerves come to life, tingling and buzzing at the contact.

Just when coherent thought is becoming a difficult feat, Potter pulls back. His lips are shiny-red and wet. He’s beautiful. The flushed face and bright eyes make him look like a painting. Like something men used to pay money to stand around in back rooms and gaze at. 

Draco has a ridiculous, possessive thought that no one else should ever be allowed to witness this Just Kissed Potter. It should be for Draco’s eyes only. _Mine,_ his mind whispers. 

And then Potter says his name—like a plea. And whatever was left of Draco’s doubts disintegrate to dust.

“Harry,” Draco replies softly, the name rolling off his tongue easily, and then he’s leaning forward and they’re kissing again.

Draco swaps their positions in a seeker fast movement, spinning them and backing Harry up against the wall. Draco crowds in, lips still moving against Harry’s, and slouches down a bit to line up their bodies. 

Draco’s hard, and if the impressive bulge straining the front of Harry’s jeans is any indication, he is too. Draco rolls his hips tentatively, his tongue moving inside Harry’s mouth. His ears ring at the sound Harry makes, at the way it vibrates through him, spreading down his body to the tips of his toes. So, Draco does it again, pressing forward harder and closer this time.

The only way that it could be better is if there wasn’t a barrier of clothing in the way. Draco’s tempted to Vanish the infuriating fabric, but somewhere in the back of his lust hazy mind is the knowledge that Harry’s never done this before. Not with a bloke anyway. 

Harry’s trusting him not to go too far, too fast. The clothes should probably stay, and Draco should probably slow down. He should stop grinding their hips together like this. Should stop licking into Harry’s mouth, should stop running his hands through Harry’s hair, stop tugging at it roughly. 

_Merlin, he doesn’t want to stop though._

He does pull back, the reason being more that he needs to drag some air into his lungs, and less that he has any intention of stopping or slowing down.

“Fuck,” Draco whispers to himself. He feels completely disconnected from his body. His legs unsteady, the effort of keeping his knees from giving out almost too much. He wants to sink to the ground. Wants to let himself fall and take Harry with him.

Draco wants Harry spread out beneath him. Wants those green eyes looking up at him. To feel those legs wrapped tightly around his waist. 

_We were slowing down,_ his brain reminds him but then Harry opens his mouth and Draco’s resolve crumbles.

“Later,” Harry replies breathlessly, and the promise in his voice makes something break loose in Draco’s chest, “Just—don’t stop. Keep going, _please, Draco_,” Harry begs, voice wrecked. And Draco stops overthinking. He stops holding back.

They rock against each other, the pace turning frantic and desperate. Draco pins Harry to the wall, catches a wrist in each hand and chases that delicious friction until he’s crazy with it, until Draco’s about to come in his pants like a fucking teenager and he doesn’t even care. 

Harry arches against him as best he can from his trapped position. It’s sloppy, uncoordinated. They’re still learning all the ways they fit together. 

Draco can tell that Harry’s getting close. His movements grow even more desperate and filthy nonsense starts escaping his mouth. Draco focuses all his attention on Harry then, completely forgetting about his own aching dick for a minute. He quickly pops the button on Harry’s jeans, lowers the zipper, and slowly works his hand inside the parted denim.

Harry has every opportunity to stop him. He could grab Draco’s wrist, he could say no, but he doesn’t. If anything, the moan that Harry breathes out against Draco’s ear sounds like enthusiastic approval. 

Harry is looking down between them, watching as Draco quickly conjures lube and starts to move his hand. He has a look of awe on his face, as if he can’t really believe that this is happening, and Draco can relate.

Draco can’t believe his fingers are wrapped around Harry’s hard cock. He can’t believe that he’s the one that has Harry slowly shaking apart. Can’t believe the ease with which their lips keep meeting in urgent kisses, the way Harry grips his shoulder so hard his pale skin is sure to bruise. 

The fact that it’s his hand that makes Harry come, splash after splash of warmth coating his fingers, is unbelievable. Something Draco cannot even begin to comprehend.

“Jesus, _fuck_,” Harry manages to say in between panting breaths.

Draco steps back a little and wipes his sticky hand on his shirt, too dazed to even consider casting a cleaning charm.

He’s still hard. Painfully, so. But Harry looks completely out of it. Draco pulls back his arousal and patiently waits for Harry to come back down. It’s excruciating. Mostly because Harry Potter post orgasm is a thing of beauty. He looks wrecked, lips bitten red and tan skin flushed. Draco thinks he could come from the visual alone.

When Harry meets his eyes, Draco has to swallow the emotion suddenly blocking his throat. 

“Come here,” Harry says, voice scratchy as his fingers wrap around Draco’s hips and drag him forward.

Those hands leave his hips a moment later and make quick work of his own button and zipper. Harry doesn’t hesitate before reaching inside and drawing out Draco’s cock, but his movements are cautious at first, weighing it in his hands and squeezing gently. Draco moans as Harry rubs a thumb over the tip, spreading the wetness around, making his entire length slick when more follows.

“Harry,” Draco urges, hoping to encourage him into action. The teasing touches slowly driving him mad.

“I’ve got you,” Harry says. And this time it doesn’t send Draco into a panic—instead it settles some broken part inside his chest. Makes him feel safe and cared for. Special.

Harry speeds up his strokes then, twisting at the top and reducing Draco to a shaking mess—whines and whimpers falling from his lips. Desire, possessiveness and need all curl together tightly in the pit of Draco’s stomach, Harry’s hand the only thing able to soothe the knot of tangled emotions.

Draco’s lost to the pleasure, tingles are starting to shoot up his spine and there’s no stopping it. All the breath is punched from his lungs, a wounded sound leaving him as his orgasm is roughly pulled from his body.

Draco sags forward, forcing Harry to take his weight as he struggles to catch his breath, sucking in air as thick as treacle. 

“Well. That escalated fast,” Harry says, breaking the silence and drawing a snort of laughter from Draco, “We never do things halfway, do we?”

With a smile Draco rests his forehead against Harry’s, a million questions on the tip of his tongue. 

What he settles on is, “I’m guessing you didn’t plan this?”

Harry laughs and finally pulls back. Draco feels a cleaning charm wash over him and watches as Harry rubs a hand over his mouth as he shakes his head. Draco shivers as he loses the heat of Harry’s body, the space between them leaving him chilled.

“No. I planned to kiss you. But the rest,” Harry shrugs, reaching forward and tucking a loose strand of hair behind Draco’s ear, “That was just a—an unexpected development.”

“A good one?” Draco asks nervously. Suddenly he’s terrified that this is moving too fast, that he pushed Harry too far. That he messed this up before it ever even started.

Harry brushes their lips together again, smiling into the kiss.

“A _very_ good one. Amazing really,” Harry whispers against his lips and Draco breathes a sigh of relief.

“Stay,” Draco says impulsively. Harry gives him a questioning look so he clarifies, “The night. We don’t have to—I mean nothing else has to happen but I, I’ve missed you.”

“And whose fault is that?” Harry asks with an eyebrow raised.

“Yes, yes I know. But at least let me put my dick away before you start pointing out what an idiot I am,” Draco snarks making Harry laugh, and god has Draco missed hearing that sound. He really is an idiot.

“I’ll stay,” Harry finally says, a little breathless as he steps away and tucks himself back inside his jeans. Draco does the same and then laces their fingers together, tugging Harry down the hall with him.

When Draco woke up this morning he never imagined that his day would turn out this way. But he’s so happy it did. 

Harry’s here, at his side, where he should always be, and everything is right in the world again. 

. . . 

Things continue to go well between them as April fades to May.

Emotions run high on the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, which Draco expected, but they muddle through and finally talk about some of the things they’ve avoided for so long. It’s easier than Draco imagined and he thinks that’s because Harry has a way of making all the heavy things seem lighter.

After that, the weeks slip away almost without Draco noticing, too caught up in the newness of his relationship with Harry. 

Nothing seems to change between them, while at the same time everything changes. They still meet at Starbucks most mornings, but now they trade kisses that taste like coffee and sit with their ankles hooked together beneath the table. They still talk and tease and snark at one another, but there’s an intimacy between them that wasn’t there before.

Harry has slept in his bed a handful of times now, something definitely new, and Draco doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to waking up in Harry’s arms. Still baffled at the idea that he gets to have this.

They’ve been taking things slowly though, enjoying intense make out sessions that more often than not end in frantic hand jobs, neither of them angling for more. Both satisfied with this level of physical closeness, and content in knowing they have all the time in the world to learn each other at their own pace. 

Harry has, irritatingly, been going on about taking him out, even though Draco argues that most of what they do together could be counted as dates already. But Harry, stubborn as ever, insists that a first date is important and Draco's resolve has finally broke. Which is why he’s currently letting Astoria dress him up like a life size doll, straightening the collar of his shirt and fiddling with his hair until it’s just right.

Draco can’t deny that he’s excited. He’s never really been on a date before. The courting he was expected to do in regards to Astoria doesn’t really count. 

He’s been fidgeting constantly, nervous energy keeping him in constant movement all day. It’s almost torture to sit here and let Astoria have her fun.

“Are you done yet?” Draco asks, irritation coloring his tone.

Astoria just tuts at him and walks to his dresser, sorting through the expensive bottles of cologne before selecting one. 

“Here. A few sprays of this and you’ll be ready.”

“Thank Salazar,” Draco replies, standing up and allowing his wife to fuss over him just a little more before he turns to eye himself in the full length mirror.

He’s wearing dark wash jeans and a cobalt button up that brings out the blue in his eyes. His hair is hanging loose, not quite long enough to brush the tops of his shoulders, one side tucked carefully behind his ear.

There’s an excited flush to his face and he grumbles, cursing his fair skin.

“Oh stop,” Astoria chides, coming to stand behind him, hooking her chin over his shoulder, “You look gorgeous, darling. Harry’s not going to be able to keep his eyes, or his hands, off you,” she says with a smirk.

The flush turns a brighter red and Draco closes his eyes and breaths out.

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself, because this is the last time I ask for your help.”

Astoria just laughs.

A moment later, Draco feels the wards tingle against his skin and his nerves amplify. He looks over at Astoria helplessly and she rolls her eyes.

“Fine. I’ll go say hello to Harry. But you better be down in five minutes, or else you’re not going to like what I do,” she threatens, kissing his cheek and disappearing out the door.

Draco pushes it until the last second, finally starting his way down the long staircase after exactly five minutes and his breath hitches when his eyes land on Harry. He looks edible, the grey shirt he’s wearing clings unfairly to his chest and arms, tapering down to his slim waist. The jeans are tight, tucked into black boots, and Draco can imagine what his arse looks like in them.

Maybe they can just skip the date. Draco would be happy with dragging Harry back to his room and locking them inside for the night.

“Wow,” Harry breaths out, immediately stepping forward and placing a chaste kiss to Draco’s lips, “You look—just. Wow.”

“You’re not bad yourself, Potter,” Draco replies and Harry pinches his side in retaliation to the surname. 

Astoria wishes them a good evening and then Harry lifts their clasped hands, kissing Draco’s knuckles before Apparating them away without warning. Draco’s stomach tries to drop out through his feet and he stumbles when they land a moment later.

His stomach rolls again when he realizes they’re on a quiet street in Diagon. 

They’ve discussed how to handle going public with their relationship, and decided not to make a statement, rather going about their business as usual. Neither of them want to hide or sneak around but Draco’s still not sure how he feels about being seen with Harry. People will undoubtedly talk, and he knows the majority will disapprove.

Harry senses him tensing up and runs a soothing hand down his back.

“Is this okay?” Harry asks quietly. 

Draco swallows and nods, “Yes. As long as you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. I want to show you off. Want everyone to know you’re mine,” Harry says and Draco practically melts. The possessive tone doing funny things to his heart.

“People won’t like it,” he points out, like Harry isn’t already aware of his reputation.

“Fuck em.”

So Draco doesn’t let himself worry. He pushes his nerves down and decides to just enjoy his night.

When they walk up to the restaurant, their hands not clasped but teasingly brushing, pinkies catching, Draco feels a smile stretch across his face. 

“Blaise has been owling me since New Years, insisting I stop by,” Harry explains with a shrug and a smile. 

Draco was here shortly after Blaise opened the place but hasn’t been back since, and he feels his earlier excitement returning. Something settles in his chest, knowing that Blaise will toss anyone who gives them trouble out on their arses.

When they step inside they’re met by a smiling hostess whose eyes widen and flick up to Harry’s forehead as soon as she recognizes him. They get seated right away, because of course they do, and are led to a secluded table on the outdoor patio.

Blaise stops by soon after their wine is poured and seems beyond pleased to see them. He and Harry chat animatedly for a few minutes and Draco warms at the way Harry seems to genuinely like his friend. When Blaise leaves them to enjoy their date, he gives Draco a look that says they will talk about this later.

The service is impeccable, as if it would be any thing less with Blaise running things, and the food is amazing. The conversation flows easy between them, it’s almost like they’re in their own little world, sitting under the stars and bright full moon. Draco’s not sure what he expected out of a date with Harry but this surpasses anything he could have dreamed up.

They already know each other so well, already so comfortable with each other, that there’s no awkward silences or floundering for topics to talk about. 

They share dessert, a huge sundae that’s absolutely smothered in chocolate syrup, ultimately having a bit of a sword fight with their spoons as they both scramble to get the last bite.

“That was amazing,” Draco says as they walk out of the restaurant.

“Rethinking your ‘dates are stupid’ opinion are you?” Harry quips with a grin, seeming unable to help himself and leaning close for a kiss, in sight of everyone milling along the street.

Draco stops walking and pulls Harry against him, deepening the kiss and slipping his tongue easily into Harry’s warm mouth, giving exactly zero fucks about the show they’re putting on for anyone looking.

“Maybe,” Draco steps back and starts walking again, pulling a dazed looking Harry along, “So, do you have anything else planned?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

. . .

“You’re cheating!” Draco grumbles loudly.

“I am not,” Harry insists, stepping forward to take his turn and getting the little orange ball into the hole on the first try. Draco kind of hates him.

“You’ve done this before. You have an unfair advantage.”

Harry just shakes his head, stealing a quick kiss before he turns Draco and manhandles him to where he wants. Harry is standing behind him, his arms wound around Draco, hands coming to rest over top of his on the golf stick—or whatever it’s called. Draco doesn’t know and he can’t really be arsed to care at the moment with Harry standing flush against his back.

“You just need to focus. Line it up with your eyes and then follow through,” Harry’s voice is rough against his ear and a shiver shoots down his spine.

“Can’t focus with you doing that,” Draco complains even though he doesn’t want Harry to move, ever.

Harry doesn’t release his hold on Draco, instead bringing their arms back and whacking the ball, sending it through the spinning blades of the little windmill and right into the hole on the other side.

“See. It’s not that hard.”

With Harry’s guidance and greedy hands, Draco improves as they move forward through the course, sinking a few more hole in ones. When they step up to take the last, very complicated looking shot, Harry halts him with a hand on his wrist.

“Wanna make a bet?” he asks, a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

“Alright,” Draco agrees, as if he would ever say no, “What’s the bet?”

Harry chews his lip, a flush coloring his cheeks and Draco’s interest is piqued.

“If I get a hole in one…” Harry says before trailing off, eyes flitting around to look everywhere except Draco’s face.

“Go on,” Draco encourages, stepping closer and tipping Harry’s chin up so their eyes meet.

“If I get this is on one try—you have to suck my dick,” Harry whispers the words, his face burning bright red but he doesn’t look away, keeping his eyes locked on Draco’s. 

Draco inhales sharply. Harry’s words light a fire burning through his blood, which is all very quickly heading south.

“And—“ Draco clears his throat, “And if you miss?”

“Then I suck you off.”

Draco steals a truly filthy kiss, slotting his thigh between Harry’s legs and letting him feel just how much Draco likes that idea.

“If you wanted my mouth on you, all you had to do was ask.” 

Draco watches Harry’s pupils dilate at his words and knows that either way, he wins.

. . .

Of course Harry gets the hole in one, because he’s an irritating git who is good at everything. As soon as the ball falls into the hole, Draco drags him behind a bush and Apparates them back to the Manor, both of them stumbling as they land.

Draco pushes Harry down on his bed, still not over the sight of Harry stretched out on his sheets, no matter how many times he’s seen it over the last few weeks.

He quickly yanks Harry’s jeans and pants down, stopping to unlace his boots and effectively strip him from the waist down.

Harry’s thick cock is already hard, wet at the tip, and a pretty dusky pink. Draco’s mouth waters just thinking about feeling the weight of it on his tongue. 

“Hands above your head,” Draco says, smiling at the full body shudder his words cause, “You’re going to lay back and just enjoy.”

Harry nods and quickly obeys, gripping the pillow above his head, knuckles turning white as he holds on tightly.

Draco knees his way onto the bed, running his hands up Harry’s legs as he goes. When he’s settled comfortably, he leans forward and places kisses and bites across Harry’s stomach, exposed where his shirt has ridden up. He kisses the trail of dark hair that leads down, ignoring Harry’s dick completely and moving lower. Draco kisses at the inside of his thighs, letting his nose drag up the crease of Harry’s leg before biting at a hip bone.

Tormenting Harry Potter has always been one of Draco’s favorite things, just because they’re together now doesn’t mean he’ll stop. He grins at the broken off whine that leaves Harry’s lips and lifts his head.

“No need to hold back. I want to hear you,” Draco says, his grin turning to a smirk when a loud moan escapes Harry’s open mouth, “There’s been permanent silencing charms on my bedroom since you started sleeping over.”

Draco doesn’t wait for a reply, just licks his lips and lowers his mouth once more. 

He teases for a few more minutes, Harry getting louder and louder. Finally though, he relents and takes the tip of Harry’s cock into his mouth, letting out a groan at the taste of _Harry_.

He’s salty sweet and delicious, and Draco lets his mouth slide wetly, all the way down. When he pulls back up he drags his tongue across the slit, savoring the way Harry twitches in his mouth.

Draco gets a good rhythm going and lets his mind go blank, his focus only on Harry and the noises of pleasure Draco is able to draw out of him, learning what he likes and perfecting his movements.

“Draco—oh fuck, Draco. I’m gonna—“ Harry warns and Draco redoubles his efforts.

With a string of expletives and Draco’s name, Harry comes, shooting down Draco’s throat, his body arching off the bed. He collapses back and throws an arm over his face, breaths coming fast as Draco licks him clean, not wanting to miss a single drop.

Draco flops down beside him, catching his breath and wiping his chin. When Harry finally moves his arm, he looks over at Draco with wide eyes.

“Fucking hell, Draco. _Your goddamn mouth_,” Harry says in a rush, before he surges forward, grabbing Draco by the back of the head and crashing their lips together. If the moan that escapes him is any indication, Draco thinks Harry quite likes the taste of himself in Draco’s mouth.

When they finally break apart they’re both breathing heavy and Draco’s own arousal makes itself known, having been firmly on the back burner until now.

“Want to help me out with this?” Draco asks, rolling his hips against Harry’s side.

He doesn’t expect Harry to, once again, manhandle him around, laying Draco back against the pillows and quickly dragging his pants down, discarding them at the foot of the bed. 

Harry takes his glasses off and then kneels between Draco’s spread thighs, hands planted on the bed at either side of Draco’s hips. He just looks for a minute, before suddenly leaning forward and sucking Draco into his mouth. Draco jolts as if shocked and quickly grabs Harry’s hair pulling his head up.

“You don’t have to. Harry, you—“ Draco starts to say, not wanting Harry to do anything he’s not ready for. But his protests get cut off.

“I _want_ too. I really, really want too, Draco. But you could, um. Keep pulling on my hair if you’d like,” he says with a grin before he busies his mouth again and slowly takes Draco apart.

Harry may not have ever done this before, but like with so many other things, he’s a fast learner. And what he lacks in experience he makes up for with eager enthusiasm, swallowing Draco down again and again. 

His mouth is hot, making filthy sounds echo around the room as he bobs his head up and down. He twirls his tongue, tracing the veins with firm pressure. He adds his hand after a while, stroking what he can’t fit in his mouth with a barely there touch. It’s the most exquisite form of torture.

It doesn’t take long at all before Draco feels his balls draw up tight against his body, the tell-tale tingling shooting up his spine. He gives Harry plenty of warning but he doesn’t pull off, groaning in pleasure as Draco comes, pulse after pulse of warmth flooding his mouth.

After they clean up, they drift easily off to sleep, limbs tangled together as close as they can get, neither of them knowing the absolute shit show the morning will bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)


	9. June

“I’m going to kill her,” Harry snaps out as he walks with Hermione through the crowded streets of London. 

It’s a warm day, the sun shining brightly in the cloudless sky. But Harry isn't enjoying the nice weather. Instead he’s fuming, well beyond mad and now bordering on murderous. He doubts that if he actually strangled Rita Skeeter anyone would be terribly upset or try to throw him Azkaban. He’d be doing the world a favor, really.

“Harry,” Hermione says with a disapproving frown, hooking her arm through his and slowing his stomping pace, “You know that getting upset like this is exactly what she wants, so just try to calm down. This will all blow over soon enough.”

Harry doubts that very much.

He and Draco had woken up the morning after their first official date to find a picture of themselves on the front page of the Prophet, accompanied by a three page article, their relationship a spectacle for everyone to see. 

Rita has really done it this time, accusing Draco of having Harry under the influence of a spell or potion. She then went on to recount every terrible thing Draco had ever done, harping on his Death Eater past and ultimately calling for his imprisonment. The fact that Harry is only recently divorced and Draco is still very much married did nothing to help matters. 

Skeeter dubbed the headline **‘The Affair That Rocked The Wizarding World, Golden Boy Potter Corrupted by Death Eater Malfoy’.**

It’s absolute bollocks.

And yes, they both expected something like this to happen but they didn’t want to hide, and neither of them regret making that choice. Harry absolutely refuses to keep Draco as some dirty secret. A little bad publicity isn't going to change that.

But Harry had hoped that people would keep their opinions quiet or at the very least be able to think for themselves instead of buying into the Prophet’s outrageous claims. 

He should have known better. 

Watching Draco receive howler after howler was still shocking. Then the shock turned to anger and now he’s boiling at full on rage. 

“I should just make a statement, do an interview and be done with it,” Harry says. He’s been thinking that might be the best solution at this point but Hermione keeps advising him against it, pointing out that Skeeter will just twist his words and only make things worse. He hates that she's right.

“Harry James,” Hermione sighs, coming to a stop and facing him, “We talked about this. It’s a bad idea.”

“What if I had someone else do the article?” Harry throws back, unwilling to let go of the desire to _do something,_ anything.

“Maybe,” Hermione says after a moment, the look on her face saying that she’s thinking, plotting, “Listen, we can figure this out later. Draco’s birthday is tomorrow Harry.”

Right. Draco’s birthday. That’s what he needs to focus on, it’s the whole point to this outing after all. 

. . .

“So the flowers really have the same healing properties as Phoenix tears?” Hermione asks, and Harry tries to pay attention, he really does, but Herbology was never his strongest subject.

“Not the same but similar, especially when they’re cut at the beginning of the flowering stage. If they weren’t so rare they would probably be used a lot more commonly,” Neville answers easily, happy to indulge Hermione’s never ending questions.

“So this—thing,” Harry says, indicating the small sapling that’s sitting in front of him on the work table, “will turn into that?” Harry points to the tree in the corner, its branches curvy and thick, a few reddish orange flowers starting to bloom towards the top.

Neville nods, “It will take years to mature but eventually, yes.”

Harry likes the imagery in that. Giving Draco something that will grow into something beautiful, something more. Something Harry hopes to be around to see.

Harry pays Neville an obscene amount of Galleons, thanking him repeatedly for procuring the strange plant in time for Draco’s birthday and promises to visit at Hogwarts in the fall. 

As he and Hermione make their way back to Harry’s—their walk a lot longer on the way home since he’s unable to Apparate with the plant—Harry senses her eyes on him. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” she says, bringing a hand up to twist in her hair, something Harry knows means she has something to say but is unsure if she should.

“Mione, just say whatever it is that you want to say,” Harry insists with a sigh.

“It’s just, you must really care about him. I’ve never seen you put this much thought, let alone research, into a gift before.”

It’s true, Harry has been going back and forth with Neville for months, long before his and Draco’s relationship progressed past friendship. Harry wanted to do something special for Draco, wanted to show him how much he means to Harry. 

He’s been in deep from the beginning, that much is easy to see now.

“I do. I care about him a lot,” he replies simply.

“Do you love him?” Hermione asks, catching him off guard. 

He stops in his tracks, looking over at one his best friends in the world and he _can’t_ lie to her.

“Yeah,” he says, running his free hand through his hair, “Yeah. I love him.”

She nods, accepting his answer and not pressing further, “Good. I’m glad you’re not being your usual oblivious self.”

“Oi!”

Hermione laughs, “It’s true Harry. Honestly, I could have told you that you were bisexual in fourth year. You can be really slow on the uptake sometimes.”

“Yeah okay, I see your point. But the important thing is I got there eventually.”

“You did,” Hermione says, brushing a kiss against his cheek, “Ron and I are happy for you.”

So the entirety of the Wizarding population thinks he’s an Imperiused idiot, it doesn’t matter. It’s just a small blip in the grand scheme of things. Harry’s in love, and he has the approval of his best friends. Things could be worse.

. . .

The next afternoon Harry goes to the Manor, thankful that Neville okay-ed taking Draco’s present through the Floo. 

When he steps out Fipsy is waiting, just like they planned. The elf helps Harry sneak out to the greenhouse, leaving the gift there to give to Draco later, after the party. A few other house elves are scurrying around, working hard to get the rest of Draco’s surprise ready. 

Harry really hopes this all goes according to plan.

Things have been tense, the Prophet article still hanging heavy over both their heads. Draco has been staying holed up in the Manor, fidgety and his tone clipped when Harry stops by. 

Harry knows now that Draco is worried, and this is just the way it manifests. He doesn’t hold it against him, usually able to snap Draco out of it with heated kisses that seem to go on forever and murmured reassurances against the soft shell of his ear.

Still, it feels extra important that Harry makes today special. He wants to drive all the worry and anxious thoughts out of Draco’s head.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous though. The party isn’t going to be a big one, just Draco’s closest friends, must of whom Harry has already met. But Draco’s mother will also be in attendance today and Harry has no idea what to expect.

Narcissa Malfoy had wrote to Harry after the trials, thanking him, more gracious than he thought possible of a Malfoy at the time. But they haven’t spoken in years. Draco has assured Harry that his mother knows about their relationship and is happy for them, but Harry can’t shake the nervous anxiety thrumming through his body.

Harry takes a deep breath and finally steps into the sitting room, taking in the silver decorations as his eyes scan the room for Draco. 

He’s standing by the unlit fireplace deep in discussion with Astoria, so Harry hangs back, walking over to the small table where Scorp is sitting surrounded by crayons.

“Hey little man,” Harry says and Scorpius looks up with a smile.

“Harry!” Scorpius jumps to his feet and gives Harry a fist bump, then a hug.

“What are you coloring?” Harry asks, ruffling Scorp’s blonde hair as he plops back down at the table.

“It’s a birthday card for my dad,” Scorpius answers, proudly showing off his creation.

“He’ll love it.” Scorpius gives him a toothy grin before focusing back on his drawing. 

When Harry glances up he finds Draco looking at him with soft affection and his heart starts to beat fast behind his ribs as Draco crosses the room. 

“Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you,” Draco steals a kiss, just a quick press of lips, before looking at Harry with narrowed eyes, “Where’s my present?”

“You’re a spoiled brat,” Harry says, equal parts fond and exasperated, “You’ll get it later, don’t worry.”

“I better.”

It’s not long before people start arriving. Everyone seems happy to see Harry and it settles his nerves some to know that Draco’s friends have accepted him, at least on some level. Slytherin’s are complicated, after all.

Narcissa greets Harry warmly, quietly thanking him for making Draco happy. His face flushes and he stammers through the conversation but it could have gone worse. After that he sticks to Draco’s side, quietly fading to the background.

When the house elves bring out the huge cake, everyone sings Happy Birthday, and Draco dramatically blows out twenty nine candles before taking a bow. 

“Meet me in the greenhouse in ten minutes,” Harry whispers in Draco’s ear, just as the last of the guests head for the Floo.

“What do you have planned, Potter?”

“Hey, less of the _Potter_, or no presents,” Harry retorts, laughing at Draco’s offended gasp.

“Fine,” Draco says, pressing a kiss to Harry’s lips, both of them lingering just a bit too long for polite company.

“Ten minutes,” Harry says again, stepping away and heading outside.

When he gets to the greenhouse he’s pleased to see that everything is ready. Fairy lights are strung up and candles cover every available amount of space. 

There’s a pile of soft blankets laid out on the floor, cushioning charms already cast to make it even more comfortable, and the champagne and chocolate covered strawberries are set to the side staying fresh under stasis charms.

It’s about as close to perfect as Harry could hope for. 

Still, Harry can't help but bounce around, checking and rechecking things as he waits for Draco, the ten minutes seeming to stretch on for hours. But then the door creaks open and a blonde head appears. Harry’s heart is in serious danger of breaking free from his chest and his hands shake as he watches Draco take in everything with wide eyes.

“_Harry,_” Draco says breathlessly, walking closer, eyes still flicking around, “This is amazing.”

Harry sighs in relief and pulls Draco against him, “Happy Birthday, Draco,” Harry says before capturing those pink lips with his own.

“It’s perfect, thank you,” Draco says, audibly swallowing, his adams apple bobbing, “No one’s ever—“ Draco breaks off, shaking his head and struggling for words.

Harry’s heart swells in his chest.

“How about I give you your actual present and then we can lay down on those blankets and make out like teenagers,” Harry offers, still not letting Draco out of his arms.

“Hmm,” Draco hums, his hands already starting to tug at Harry’s hair. Merlin, Harry loves that, “I like how you think.”

Harry finally, reluctantly, pulls away and leads Draco over to where his gift is waiting.

Draco’s eyes go comically wide when he sees it and he brings a hand up to his mouth, a soft, shocked sound escaping him.

“Is that a Phoenix Fire Tree?” he exclaims when he finds his voice again and Harry just nods, “Where in the hell did you get it?”

“Neville,” Harry answers with a shrug, “Honestly, I don’t know much about it but when I asked him for a plant you would appreciate, this is what he found. Do you like it?” Harry asks, nervously chewing his lip.

“Do I like it?” Draco murmurs almost to himself, “Harry. This is—Do you have any idea how rare these are? Of course, I love it.”

Before Harry can reply he has an armful of Draco, “Thank you, really. This is the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten.”

Satisfaction almost overwhelms Harry at Draco’s words and he can’t do anything but crash their lips together again, pouring all the love he has for Draco into the kiss. Harry wants to say the words, but he’s worried it’s too soon. And really all Draco has to do is look around, Harry’s feelings are painfully obvious.

They move over to the blankets, never breaking the kiss. Harry lets himself be pushed down, moaning when Draco’s body settles over his own, fitting against him perfectly. Draco’s eyes are half-lidded already, brighter than the candles burning around them and sparking with desire.

Clothes start getting pulled off, buttons slipped through holes and zippers tugged down. Soon it’s just skin against skin, the feeling more intoxicating than all the firewhisky in the world.

Harry kisses his way across Draco’s chest, letting his tongue caress each scar. He sucks purple bruises into the pale skin; one at the base of Draco’s throat, one just below his right nipple, one over his rib cage. 

Harry feels overwhelmed with a possessive need, his lips and teeth taking on a mind of their own as they mark Draco over and over again.

Draco groans as Harry bites down, hard, right in the divot of his collarbones, soothing it with a soft lick after, “Harry. I want—_fuck_, want you to fuck me.”

Harry’s brain whites out and for a second he can’t comprehend Draco’s words, but then it all rushes in, like ocean waves crashing over him and pulling him under. 

“Are you sure? I haven’t ever...” Harry says, as if Draco doesn’t already know this.

“I’ll tell you what to do. Please,” Draco begs and Harry nods, pushing his anxiety down.

“Okay—yeah, okay.”

Draco flips their positions easily, laying on his back and spreading his legs in a way that makes Harry’s cock twitch. Draco is exposed, vulnerable, and completely on display. And it’s all for Harry.

“Cast a lubrication charm and start with one finger,” Draco instructs and Harry gropes around for his wand, giving up after a moment and casting wandlessly, “Fuck, it’s hot when you do that.”

Harry grins, some of his confidence returning.

He slicks his finger, hesitating only slightly before he rubs it against Draco’s tight entrance, feeling the muscle flutter beneath it. Slowly, he pushes inside, a devastated sound leaving his mouth when he feels how hot and velvet soft Draco is. It’s nothing like he’s ever experienced before, the feeling of Draco’s body gripping him so tightly leaving him lightheaded and dizzy with want.

“Okay?” 

“Yes,” Draco says, his eyes are almost completely black now, only a thin ring of blue-grey remaining, “Feels so good.”

It isn’t long before Draco demands more.

“Add another,” he says, his voice scratchy and rough, “Spread them apart,” he makes a scissoring motion with his own fingers to demonstrate.

Harry complies, first adding more of the silky lube before pushing back in. Draco’s body yields to the intrusion quickly, opening up beautifully and pulling Harry’s fingers deeper.

Moans of pleasure are falling out of Draco’s mouth freely, and he starts rolling his hips down, fucking himself on Harry’s hand. 

Harry’s never seen anything more breathtaking.

Just as he's thinking that there’s a specific spot he should be searching for, Draco speaks again, as if reading his mind.

“Crook your fingers up,” and Harry does, Draco’s body jolting and arching when he rubs against the sensitive bundle of nerves, “Ah, ah, fuck. Yes—right there.”

“Jesus, Draco,” Harry lets his fingers graze that spot again and again, “You’re beautiful. So fucking amazing.”

Draco just hums, lost to the feeling, his eyes drifting closed.

The candles are casting flickering shadows across Draco’s face, lighting up his sharp features and making his blonde hair glow white. He looks angelic, like something not from this Earth. 

“Harry. I’m ready—come on. Need you in me.”

Harry makes a choked sound and nods, stunned silent by the man beneath him.

He slides his fingers out gently, then slicks his cock, watching as Draco pulls his knees up and back. He leans over Draco and kisses him urgently—tongues twisting and teeth clashing together —as he lines up and pushes forward, barely meeting any resistance before his cock breaches Draco’s body. 

And then there’s nothing but _tight, hot, yes, Draco, Draco, Draco._

Once he’s completely encased in Draco’s body, as deep as he can get, Harry stops, muffling a moan against the heated skin of Draco’s neck and darts his tongue out to taste the salty sweetness under his lips. 

Harry feels like he’s burning, like his skin is going to burst into flames and reduce him to ash. And Draco is the only thing able to soothe the scorching fire.

“Harry,” Draco moans, voice absolutely wrecked.

Harry pulls back, their eyes lock, and _god_, Harry knows. Knows with every molecule and cell in his body that he won’t ever love anyone the way he loves Draco Malfoy. Harry loves Draco so much he doesn’t even know how to say it, there aren’t words for the way he feels.

“Move, please. Need you to move.”

Harry swallows down the emotion suddenly clogging his throat, his eyes burning, “Yeah, anything you want, Draco. Anything.”

“You. I just want you.”

Harry starts to move, rocking deep into Draco’s body, again and again.

“I’m yours,” Harry whispers, catching Draco’s mouth in a hard kiss.

Draco is so tight and wet and warm, and Harry loses himself to it. Pushes in and in with rough snaps of his hips, greedily swallowing every whimper, every whine and moan of pleasure that leaves Draco’s kiss swollen lips. 

“I”m gonna—fuck, Harry. I’m—“

With one hand, Harry tangles their fingers together against the blankets, holding on tight, while he moves his other hand down to wrap around Draco’s cock, hot and hard in his fist.

“Me too, so close.”

When Draco comes, Harry’s entire body shudders at the feeling of Draco tightening around him, and he follows him over the edge, his orgasm crashing through him, almost violent in its intensity. 

His arms give out and he collapses down on top of Draco, and they stay there, neither willing to move for a long time.

Eventually, Draco says, “Hey.”

Harry mumbles something back, not even sure if it’s actual words, his brain still not fully functioning yet.

“We’re going to be stuck together if you don’t move,” Draco complains, but Harry can hear the smile in his voice.

“Don’t wanna,” Harry whines, nosing at Draco’s cheek.

“Well, then you better snap your all powerful fingers and cast a cleaning charm,” Draco snarks back even as his hands start petting gently through Harry’s hair.

“Can’t.”

“Harry.”

“Fine,” Harry grumbles, “I’m moving.”

Harry pushes himself up on shaky arms, stealing a few kisses before he moves away. Once they’ve cleaned up, Harry pops open the bottle of champagne, filling their glasses and clinking them together. 

“You know,” Draco’s lips are stained red from the strawberries and Harry can feel the beginnings of arousal starting to course through his veins again, “You really outdid yourself. How are you ever going to top it for my birthday next year?”

Harry just smiles. Honestly, he doesn’t know.

But every time he looks at Draco, he sees forever. Knowing that Draco sees a future for them too—years and years of more holidays and birthdays spent together stretching out before them—makes Harry damn well want to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10 will be posted tomorrow <3


	10. July

Summer seems to fly by, the days passing in a blur of sunshine and laughter. July has come and almost gone, and even though Draco knew it was approaching, he still can’t quite believe it’s Harry’s birthday already.

Harry’s party is a much bigger affair than Draco’s own was—loud and rowdy and honestly a bit overwhelming. But Draco expected nothing less.

He has never seen so many Weasley’s in the same room. The sea of people crowded together in the Leaky Cauldron is ninety percent red hair and freckles. Draco does his best to hide how nervous it makes him as he walks back to the long table, his eyes catching on the single head of dark hair. Harry looks so happy, surrounded by his family and friends, smiling and laughing—he looks lit up from within.

As Draco squeezes his way through the throngs of people, Harry’s laughter reaches his ears. It’s like a ripple, radiating out, soft at first but then it becomes a great wave of sound. It’s the kind of laugh that makes you want to laugh as well. Nose scrunched, eyes crinkling type of laugh. It’s a sound Draco never grows tired of hearing.

So no matter how uncomfortable this gathering might be for Draco, he’s trying, _really trying_, to have a good night and make Harry’s birthday as special as Harry made his.

“Malfoy’s back!” Ronald Weasley exclaims when he finally walks up, “I’m reconsidering my opinion of your boyfriend, mate. He brought us shots.” 

And who knew a Weasley would warm up to Draco so fast. The alcohol is probably a large contributor but Draco’s choosing to ignore that fact. He directs the line of shot glasses bobbing behind him to the table before sliding back into his seat next to Harry.

“Yeah, told you he’s great,” Harry replies, leaning into Draco’s side and pressing a kiss against his temple. 

They all take their shots and then the conversation continues to flow easily, more easily than Draco could have ever imagined. These people have no reason to make him feel welcome, yet they are. 

Draco’s not sure he deserves kindness of this level, feels like maybe he doesn’t really belong here. But then he looks up and catches sight of Blaise standing by the bar, and his nerves settle some. Astoria is around somewhere as well and Draco’s comforted by the fact that he has some of his own people here too, silently supporting him.

The peaceful reprieve doesn’t last long though, his nerves returning as he watches Ginevra Weasley walking towards them. Her fiery red hair is pulled up into a pony tail that swings menacingly behind her as she advances through the pub, her sharp gaze fixed firmly on Draco.

Draco doesn’t flinch, but Harry looks up startled as his ex-wife suddenly looms over their table.

“Neville’s looking for you, Harry. Something about a game of darts?” Ginevra says, and Draco watches as a silent conversation passes between the two, a bit shocked to learn that he can read Harry’s face effortlessly. 

The girl-Weasley is harder to interpret, but Draco has a suspicion that this is a ploy to get him alone, and quite possibly hex him to death.

Harry seems ready to argue but the redhead simply raises an eyebrow and purses her lips. Draco watches—in something akin to terror—as Harry gives in, standing from the table with a strained smile and a warning look at his ex. 

“I’ll just go and find him then,” Harry says—grumbles really—and disappears into the crowd.

Draco looks around panicked and realizes the table has cleared, the others escaping without his notice. He’s well and truly on his own. Fuck.

Falling back on his impeccable manners, he stiffly says, “It’s a pleasure to see you, Ginevra.”

She makes a face like she just swallowed something sour and replies, “Merlin, you can call me Ginny, you overly formal prat.”

A shocked laugh escapes Draco and she gives him a tentative smile in return.

“Ginny then. I assume you have something you wish to speak with me about?” Draco prompts nervously. 

“You needn’t worry. I have no plans to hex you. Yet,” Ginny says with a threatening but playful glint in her eyes, “I will though—hex you that is, if you harm a single hair on his head.”

“I wouldn’t, ever,” Draco says with sincerity, the thought of hurting Harry so abhorrent to Draco that his stomach twists in on itself.

“You’ve went out of your way to hurt him in the past,” she states and Draco can’t deny it’s true, so he doesn’t.

“Yes, well. Things are different now.”

“Obviously,” Ginny says with a laugh, squinting an eye to inspect one of the half empty beer bottles that litter the table, before picking it up and downing its contents. Draco internally cringes—she doesn’t even know whose that was! 

“Regardless, you can skip the shovel talk. I have no intention of hurting him,” Draco promises and he almost thinks she believes him.

“You best not,” she warns again but her tone is friendlier now, “Anyways, I didn’t come over here just to threaten you. I have a proposition, in regards to your—situation with the press.”

“Go on,” Draco says with a wave of his hand, resigned to the fact that this may well be the strangest conversation he’s ever been apart of.

“I want to do an article. About you and Harry.”

Draco stares at her, shocked silent. He’s sure his mouth is hanging open in the most undignified way, but he can’t seem to do anything to close it.

“But you write for a Quidditch magazine and, and. Why on earth would you want to help me?!” Draco blurts when he regains the ability to speak.

“Honestly? I don’t want to help you at all. You were an insufferable, entitled bully when we were kids and I’ll never forget that,” she answers bluntly, “But you make Harry happy so I’m willing to give you a chance. And the thing is, if I do the story, you’ll both have explicit control of what gets published, people will be more inclined to believe it coming from me, and I’ll get one up on that bitch Skeeter,” she ticks off each point on her fingers, a smug smile on her face, “Plus other publications will be quick to pick up the story, I’ve no doubt.”

“You’re serious?” Draco asks, feeling a bit like he’s been hit with a Stupefy. 

“As a heart attack.”

Draco gives himself a moment to think it over. He has to admit, she makes a good point. And surprisingly, he finds that he trusts her, sure in the knowledge that she has only good intentions when it comes to anything involving Harry.

“Alright,” Draco agrees with a nod, “that would be wonderful actually.”

Ginny grins, “Great. I’ll just go and get Harry onboard then, shall I?”

Draco laughs, “You do that.”

. . .

When Harry returns he asks if Draco is sure about doing the interview, his look of concern replaced with a lopsided smile when Draco assures that he is. They fall into comfortable silence then, sipping their drinks as the noisy buzz of the party ebbs and flows around them.

“Hermione’s plotting something,” Harry whispers in his ear, startling him. Draco follows his gaze and sure enough, there’s Hermione and Astoria huddled together at the end of the table deep in discussion. They both keep cutting quick glances at Harry, and Draco worries—not for the first time tonight—that introducing them was a bad idea.

“Merlin help us,” Draco mutters, making Harry snort a laugh, “What do you think they’re up too?”

Harry drags a hand through his hair, and Draco’s eyes track the movement. He can’t wait to get home and feel the silky stands sliding through his own fingers. Can’t wait to pull Harry close and press their lips together with no worry of who might be watching.

“Don’t know,” Harry answers, eyeing the two women with suspicion, “But it can’t be good.”

Draco just hums in agreement and takes another sip of his wine.

“Let’s not chance finding out,” Harry says abruptly, and Draco raises an eyebrow at him in question. The mischief in Harry’s eyes means trouble, “We could sneak out of here. Go back home and get naked,” his tongue darts out to lick at his lip, just letting the suggestion hang between them, causing Draco’s mind to run wild with all sorts of inappropriate thoughts. 

Draco breathes out through his nose and says, “You can’t leave your own party early, Potter.”

“Says who, _Malfoy?_ It’s my birthday, I can do what I want,” Harry argues. The hand that was resting between them on the bench creeps up onto Draco’s thigh, squeezing and rubbing teasingly, and Draco’s resolve starts to crumble, with just that one touch.

“You just want your present,” Draco states, forcing himself to grab Harry’s wandering hand and halt its movement. He will not get hard sitting in the Leaky. He won’t. 

“C’mon Draco, _please,_” Harry says, voice turning breathy and soft.

Harry Potter is bad for his health—he should come with a warning.

But Draco already knows that he’s going to give in. If he’s learned anything over the last few months, it’s that he can’t say no to Harry.

“Fine. You go first, I’ll follow in a minute.”

Harry kisses him, biting at his bottom lip a little as he retreats. He stands from the table and makes like he’s headed for the loo. With no one watching too closely he’s able to slip unnoticed out the door leading to the side alley. 

Draco waits, counting the seconds in his head. When he gets to 200 he stands and walks casually in the direction Harry went.

The humid air hits him in the face when he steps outside and he’s completely unprepared to be grabbed by Harry and pushed against the wall of the pub. All the oxygen is punched from his lungs and his pulse starts thudding loudly in his ears. He vaguely registers his shirt catching on the brick, probably snagging, but Draco doesn’t even care. Not with Harry standing up on his tip toes to kiss at his neck. 

“I drank more than you. You should probably Apparate us,” Harry mumbles against his jaw, a playful nip following his words. 

“Yeah,” Draco replies, but instead he just arches his neck back further, head thunking against the wall, giving Harry better access.

Draco can feel Harry’s smile against his skin, can smell the beer on his breath with every shallow exhale. Forgetting all about Apparating them, Draco drags Harry flush against him, one hand around his waist and one clutching the curls at the base of his skull. He encourages Harry’s hips into a slow roll, the maddening friction leaving him light-headed.

They’re both hard, already, and Draco marvels at how the smallest action can set them off, dragging them into a fog of lust and making the rest of the world fall away. Draco has never wanted someone like this before in his life, has never experienced desire like this, felt out of control and crazy with it the way he does when Harry touches him. It’s amazing and overwhelming and _perfect._

But all too soon their movements become restless, both wanting more than their very public location allows and Draco pulls back, hands gripping Harry’s hips to stop their movement, pushing him away a little.

He breathes out, struggling to focus his mind and slow his heartbeat. Harry waits patiently, his hands resting against the brick on each side of Draco’s shoulders, head tipped forward as he too tries to regain control of himself.

Finally, Draco feels confident he won’t leave any body parts behind and twists them away from the alley, Harry’s bedroom pictured firmly in his mind.

Draco is one of only three people with the privilege of Apparating directly into Grimmuald Place and it thrills him every single time. 

They land, both a bit unsteady, right next to the bed and Harry is already moving to pull his shirt off. 

And Merlin, Draco’s dick hates him right now but he steps away regardless and tells Harry to wait.

“Present first, then sex,” Draco explains at Harry’s distressed whine.

“Present later, sex now,” Harry retorts, his nimble fingers reaching for the button on Draco’s jeans.

Draco could give in, and god does he want to, but he knows that once he gets Harry into bed he intends to keep him there for a long time. 

He says as much out loud and Harry moans, apparently liking the idea as much as Draco.

“Alright,” Harry finally relents, his eyes glassy but focused on Draco, “Present first.”

Draco feels nerves flutter in his stomach as he clears his throat and calls for Kreacher. 

The elf pops into the room a second later, his small bony arms weighed down with the large piece of fabric. It’s rolled up tightly, tied off with a gleaming red bow, and Draco sees Harry eyeing it curiously beside him.

“Thank you Kreacher,” Draco says, taking the bundle from him. Kreacher bows and then pops away.

Draco turns to Harry, a million things he wants to say on the tip of his tongue, but he’s unable to find the words. Instead, he swallows nervously and hands the gift over to Harry.

Harry carefully unties the bow and gently sets it aside before he unrolls the heavy fabric. Draco quickly pulls his wand out and uses a temporary sticking charm to hang it from the wall.

“It’ll be easier to see this way,” he explains in a soft whisper.

Draco watches as Harry’s eyes take in the tapestry, the large tree intricately woven with gold yarn, depicting generations of Potters’. The bright green leaves and red-orange sky make it look like a vibrant piece of artwork. Which Draco supposes it is.

At the very top, in black script, are the words _The Last Enemy That Shall Be Destroyed Is Death_.

Harry has stepped closer now, his fingers trailing, almost reverently, over the branches where his parents names are woven. His mouth is parted in shock and Draco can hear his breaths coming faster. 

Anxiety spiking, Draco rambles, “You told me how happy you were to have the Black tapestry restored, so I just thought you might like one for the Potters’ as well. Hermione helped me trace the bloodlines back and I found a magical artist to commission. I know it’s not a fun present or anything, but I—I thought it was something you might like to have. I’m sorry if I overstepped or—“ Draco snaps his mouth shut as Harry turns towards him, because Draco has never seen Harry look at him quite the way he is now. His eyes are wet but the smile tilting his lips is blindingly bright.

Draco is only able to let out a sigh of relief before Harry’s lips are on his, the kiss more sweet and gentle than any they’ve ever shared before. 

“I love you,” Harry breathes against his mouth when they finally part, and Draco feels like his skin is suddenly on fire. 

Looking into Harry’s eyes, bottle-green and beautiful, a few tears clinging to his long, dark lashes, Draco knows he would stand between this man and the end of the world. And if that’s not love, Draco doesn’t know what is. He loves Harry with every fiber of his being, loves him so much that the words seem inadequate. But he says them anyway. He’ll keep saying them, everyday for the rest of his life if Harry allows it.

_“I love you too.”_

. . .

The rest of the night is lost in a haze of heated touches and sweet words murmured against warm skin. Draco is drunk off the feeling of being in love, pressing against Harry, demanding harder and closer and more. 

Harry takes his time opening Draco up, his fingers moving with relentless precision while he sucks Draco into his mouth, the pleasure almost too intense. When Draco is reduced to a babbling mess, Harry finally pushes inside him; his hard cock throbbing in time with Draco’s heartbeat.

Draco loses himself to the delicious stretch. He’s so full. So complete.

Their bodies arch together, moving in perfect synchronization, like they’re one being instead of two. Fused together in the most intimate way. Harry comes first, and the way he clutches Draco close and brokenly moans _I love you so much_, sends Draco tumbling over the edge after him.

Afterwards, they lay sated and content, trading soft kisses that lead nowhere. They could stay here, in this moment, forever and Draco would never grow bored. 

And of course, he keeps his word. Not allowing Harry to leave the sanctuary of the bedroom for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all have a happy and safe Halloween :)


	11. August

It’s a warm August morning and Harry is in love. 

Well, he’s been in love for a while but now that he’s said the words out loud, it suddenly seems _real_ in a way it hadn’t before. Almost tangible. And the most amazing thing about it all is, Draco loves him too. 

Harry can’t remember the last time he was this stupidly happy. 

He rolls over, stretching his tight muscles and letting out a big yawn. The sun is filtering into the bedroom through the open window, bringing with it a warm breeze and the sound of birds chirping.

“Would you stop moving,” Draco says, his voice hoarse and low. He’s rolled away from Harry in his sleep, but one hand is stretched across the bed, resting on Harry’s stomach, “You’re stealing all the covers.”

Harry knows the smile that stretches his lips probably looks ridiculous but he can’t help it. Mornings spent waking up and bickering with Draco are quite possibly his favorite thing. 

“Well you can have them all. I’m going to go and start breakfast,” Harry replies, untangling himself from the fluffy duvet and tucking it securely around Draco’s half asleep form, “Any requests?”

“French toast,” Draco mumbles. He wiggles around, wrapping himself up as much as humanly possible, only a bit of blonde hair sticking out at the top, “And coffee. Dear god, _a lot_ of coffee.”

“You got it,” Harry says with a laugh. He presses a kiss to the top of Draco’s head and slides out of bed.

Harry can hear the boys, already awake, the sound of chattering voices and cartoons reaching his ears as he descends the stairs. He pokes his head into the living room and sure enough, the three of them are sprawled on top of a mound of blankets, their eyes glued to the telly.

Harry decides it’s better not to disturb them. It isn’t often that their attention is held by anything for longer than a few seconds at a time, and he knows they’ll soon be invading the kitchen in search of food.

He shoos Kreacher away from the stove and starts pulling out ingredients, lining them up on the counter, and flicks his wand to start the coffee. Before long he has a pile of French toast and bacon sizzling away in a pan. 

Whether drawn by the racket he’s making or the smell of breakfast cooking, the boys come barreling into the room only a few minutes later, all talking over one another asking what he’s making and how soon it will be done.

“Where’s my dad?” Scorpius asks, climbing up on a chair to get a better view of the countertop, “Can I have blueberries on mine?”

“Yes, and your dad is still sleeping. Why don’t you all go and wake him up while I finish this,” Harry suggests with a smirk, “You may have to really jump on him!” He yells after them as they rush up the stairs.

Harry knows he’ll pay for that later but when he hears Draco’s shocked shriek and then howls of laughter from the boys, he can’t say he really cares.

After everyone has been fed and Draco has gotten his payback by charming Harry’s silverware Slytherin green, they send the boys off to get dressed while they start cleaning up.

“Tell me again how we got roped into doing this?” Draco asks, a sour look on his face.

“_You_ told Astoria we would,” Harry replies, flicking his wand to send the dishes to their designated cupboards, before pulling Draco into a kiss that tastes like syrup and coffee and cinnamon, “Anyways it’ll be fine. We just have to get their school uniforms, how hard can it be?”

. . .

The answer to that question is _very._ Shopping for school uniforms with three bored boys is turning out to be more complicated that Harry ever could have imagined.

“Jamie would you please stand still,” Harry says for what has to be the hundredth time. A second later he hears Draco mutter _Good grief, Scorpius_ from the dressing room next to them.

“But it’s itchy,” James complains, pulling at the collar of his shirt.

“You can take it off as soon as we make sure it fits properly,” Harry says with a tired sigh.

“But dad,” James whines. In the next moment Albus apparently decides it will be a great idea to crawl underneath the wall that’s separating him from his best friend. Harry grabs him by his ankle and shouts an apology over to Draco. 

What seems like hours later, they finally emerge from the shop, weighed down with bags of clothes and school supplies. Harry is exhausted and wants nothing more than to go home and pour himself a strong drink. But they promised the boys ice cream, so they head off down Diagon towards Fortescue’s instead.

Of course, even something as simple as getting ice cream can’t be easy. James throws a fit when Harry refuses to order him multiple flavors so he mix them together. And Al cries because they have run out of mint chocolate chip. 

Scorpius is the most cooperative of the three, politely asking for a chocolate cone, and Harry can only glare at Draco’s smug look while he tries to calm James and Albus down.

The witch behind the counter must sense that Harry’s patience is wearing thin, because she distracts the boys with colorful cookies shaped like dragons. The boys forget all about ice cream flavors as they take the offered treats and Harrys sighs with relief. 

With autumn fast approaching, they decide to take advantage of the warm air and sunshine, sitting outside at one of the wooden tables. 

Harry’s thoughts of the summer before his third year—when he sat at one of these very tables and ate free sundaes nearly everyday—are interrupted, as a boy with sandy brown hair and a nervous smile walks up to them.

He looks to be about sixteen and Harry supposes he’s probably doing his back to school shopping for Hogwarts. He doesn’t look the type to start trouble, but Harry’s hand goes to his wand anyway, out of habit. 

Harry is well aware that people find his life interesting and he knows that everything he does is watched closely. He long ago learned to live with it. But he wishes that for once he could just enjoy a day out with his family.

When the boy finally clears his throat and speaks, Harry feels guilty for his internal grumblings.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” the boy says, twisting his hands together in front of him, “but I saw you here and I wanted to thank you Mr. Potter. And—and you Mr. Malfoy.” 

Draco looks stunned silent and the boys haven’t even bothered to look up from their ice cream, so Harry answers, “What exactly are you thanking us for..?”

“Ivan,” the boy says quickly, thrusting out a hand, “Ivan Kishmann. It’s great to meet you sir. I-I read the interview that you and Mr. Malfoy did, and it—well it really helped me. So, thank you.” 

Harry is at a loss for what to say. After the war people approached him constantly, thanking him and crying all over him, but it’s been a long time since that’s happened. He never felt comfortable with everyone’s gratitude towards him, but he could understand it. But this—Harry doesn’t have the faintest idea how a silly little article could mean so much to someone.

So Harry just nods with a smile. 

The boy doesn’t linger, thanking them both once more before striding off toward his friends that are waiting across the street. It all starts to make a bit more sense when Harry sees him wrap an arm around one of the other boys in the group and press a quick kiss to his lips. 

“Did that really just happen?” Draco asks, looking at Harry with wide eyes.

“Yeah, I reckon it did,” Harry answers, reaching across the table to thread his fingers through Draco’s, “Sort of nice wasn’t it?”

Draco just squeezes his fingers back tightly.

. . .

Later, after they’ve dropped the boys off at the Manor—Astoria had offered to take them all for the night, guessing that he and Draco would need a break after a long day of school shopping—they return to Grimmuald Place, where they order takeaway and eat in bed.

They laze together, and the innocent kisses they share between bites of food soon turn heated. 

Harry vaguely registers the sound of plates being knocked to the floor, their forgotten dinner spilling and probably staining the carpet. But Harry can’t find it in himself to care much, with Draco hovering above him, trailing kisses down the side of his throat.

“Draco—I want. Can we—“ Harry stammers, unable to force the words out through the tightness of his throat. 

“What do you want?” Draco asks, his voice calm and patient.

“I want you to fuck me,” Harry whispers.

Draco inhales sharply, fastening his eyes on Harry’s and just staring for several long seconds.

Finally he asks, “Are you sure?”

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been more sure of anything in his entire life, “Yeah, I’m sure. Please.”

Draco nods, the motion more jerky and less graceful than Harry is used to seeing from him.

“If I do something you don’t like—or if you change your mind, at any point, all you have to do is say stop. And I’ll stop,” Draco says with such conviction that any nervousness Harry feels starts to fade away to nothing. 

“I won’t want you to stop.”

“Roll over then,” Draco says, his tone going just the slightest bit commanding. Harry shivers and quickly flips onto his stomach, resting his forehead on his folded arms.

Draco’s fingers trail up the inside of his thighs, touching and caressing those secret places that no one else has ever bothered with. Places Harry didn’t even realize could feel so good. 

Harry feels Draco shift around, and then his mouth is kissing the dimples at the base of Harry’s back, continuing up a moment later to drag over every bump and divot of his spine. 

Draco places one last biting kiss to the side of Harry’s neck, the sweet pleasure-pain making Harry’s cock twitch and leak against the sheets.

“Spread your legs and bring your knees up some,” Draco rasps against his ear, and goose flesh breaks out all over Harry’s body.

Harry slowly drags his knees up and out, leaving his chest pressed flat against the bed. Before he can become too self conscious about being on such blatant display, Draco’s mouth begins to move back down, following the same path as before, only in reverse. 

He doesn’t stop, lips and teeth moving down and over one arse cheek and then the other. His hands clutch at Harry’s hips hard—fingers digging in, nails scrapping skin. Then, without warning, Draco spreads Harry apart and licks him firmly from balls to tailbone.

“Oh—_fuck._ Oh god, Draco. What are you—?” Harry tries to ask, because this is filthy and a bit odd and quite possibly the most amazing thing Harry has ever felt. 

“Do you want me stop?” Draco asks, barely pulling away. The warm air blowing across the spit-slick flesh makes Harry whimper and sends a flash of heat up his spine.

Harry doesn’t even think, just blurts, “Fuck, no. Don’t you dare stop.”

Harry can hear Draco’s smug grin as he replies, “Thought so.”

Draco’s mouth is devastatingly hot as it moves against him and Harry lets himself sink into the feeling. His body soon relaxes enough to allow Draco’s tongue to push past the tight ring of muscle. And isn’t that just a whole new sensation; Draco’s tongue working further in, licking against sensitive tissues and nerves, lighting Harry up from the inside out.

But he wants more—needs it. The achy knot in his stomach is getting heavier and heavier, and Harry knows what will bring him relief.

“I want your fingers,” he says, a needy whine following the words.

Draco doesn’t acknowledge that he’s heard Harry’s request, doesn’t stop, his movements not faltering at all. And then suddenly, a slick finger is sliding in alongside his tongue. 

One quickly becomes two and Draco removes his mouth, stretching Harry with just his fingers. He kisses all the skin within his reach, and when Draco grazes his prostate, Harry feels like his nerve endings are sizzling—sparking and igniting. It’s all _Draco_, surrounding him and inside him, fingers and mouth claiming and worshipful.

“You look so beautiful like this,” Draco says, shaky and overwhelmed.

“Draco, please,” Harry says, over and over again, his vocabulary reduced to those two words. 

“Be patient, I want this to be good for you. Want to ruin you for anyone else,” Draco replies possessively. 

_You already have,_ Harry thinks. Aloud, he half sobs, “Just—please. _Please._”

Draco works one more finger in before he finally relents. Harry vaguely hears the slick sound of Draco stroking himself, feels the blunt pressure of Draco’s cock against him, and then finally, _finally_, Draco pushes inside and Harry’s world erupts in fireworks, a kaleidoscope of colors flashing behind his eyes.

It stings, the stretch just this side of painful but the pleasure, the feeling of Draco hard and throbbing, held so tightly inside Harry’s body, is earth shattering. Harry feels full and whole, in a way he never has before. 

Draco sinks further inside him with gentle, slow thrusts. Working deeper and deeper with each tiny roll of his hips. When he’s flush against Harry he stops, gripping Harry’s hip tightly with one hand as the other rubs soothing circles on his lower back.

“Alright?” Draco asks, voice strained, his body trembling against Harry’s.

Harry doesn’t think he could form actual words if he tried, so he just nods, hoping Draco can see it. He must, because after another few seconds he starts to move.

Everything slows then, the world narrowing down to the point where they’re connected. Draco folds his body over Harry’s back, their skin meeting in sweat-slick perfection. Words of praise fall from Draco’s lips, softly whispered in broken syllables against the shell of Harry’s ear.

It’s everything Harry expected it to be and nothing like it at all. 

Suddenly, the need to see Draco, to look into those blue-grey eyes and watch as he comes, flares bright behind Harry’s ribs.

“Draco—wait,” Harry gasps out, and Draco stops immediately. Before he can ask, Harry continues, “I’m fine. I just want to see you.”

Draco pulls out and scoots back, giving Harry room to flip over. Then he takes Harry’s legs and hooks them over his arms, before he lines back up and pushes inside once more. 

Draco continues with his gentle pace, but Harry wants more.

“Harder,” Harry demands, doing his best to rock back against Draco with more force, “I’m not going to break.”

Harry sees fire flash in Draco’s eyes and then he’s pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back in hard. Harry grabs for any part of Draco he can reach and pulls him down into a messy kiss.

It isn’t long before Draco’s movements stutter and then speed up. He reaches a hand between them and grips Harry’s cock in his tight fist, and it’s too much. Harry feels his muscles clench and ripple around Draco’s cock as he comes, stripes of white coating his stomach and chest. 

Draco thrusts hard and deep, once, twice—and then he’s coming too.

“We're doing that again, soon,” Harry says when he finds his voice again.

Draco laughs, the sound muffled against Harry’s neck, “I’ve created a monster.”

Harry smiles, a snarky retort on the tip of his tongue, but then a melancholy feeling settles over him. Laying here, curled against Draco, he desperately wants all the time they’ve wasted back. Wants a time-turner so he can go and smack some sense into their younger selves. Because Harry knows that _this_ was always there, simmering just below the surface, waiting for the chance to explode and consume them both.

“Harry? What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing. I just—sometimes I wish I’d have figured it out sooner. All those years when I didn’t know what was missing, and it was you. How didn’t we see it?” Harry asks, looking into Draco’s eyes and finding his own feelings reflected back at him.

Of course, Harry also knows that it would have been a disaster if they had started a relationship when they were younger. They hadn’t been ready then; both of them too damaged and stubborn. They would have ruined it before it ever had a chance to turn into something even half as wonderful as what they have now.

“I don’t know,” Draco answers with a sigh and a sad smile, “But we have each other now. That’s what matters, right?”

And Harry kisses him, because Draco’s right. The past doesn’t matter, not now, when Harry’s busy looking towards the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter in fits and starts, and at times it had me seriously close to pulling my hair out. I really hope it came together okay and you guys like it! I'm going to try and post the final chapter later today <3


	12. September

~Draco~ 

Between Scorpius being on summer holiday and Harry taking up a large chunk of his free time, Draco has fallen woefully behind with his work. 

But the new school term has started and Harry is otherwise occupied, so Draco has resolved himself to a day locked away in his potions lab. He usually wouldn’t be bothered by this, but as he looks down at the menacing list of potions that need brewed, he finds himself wishing he was anywhere else. 

There’s nothing for it though, he has to get this done. He starts with a batch of Dreamless Sleep that is to be delivered to St. Mungo’s by the end of the week. The process is long and tedious, and Draco finds his mind wandering.

Just as he’s stirring—seven times, clockwise—Astoria knocks lightly on the open door and peeks inside.

“Do you have a minute?” she asks, and Draco is quite happy for the interruption.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m in desperate need of a break. Just let me—” Draco replies, waving his wand over the cauldron to complete the potion and then extinguishes the flame. 

Astoria waits until he has finished and cleaned his hands before saying, “I have something for you,” her tone cautious.

She hands Draco a cream-colored piece of parchment, sealed closed with the Malfoy crest. He’s baffled for a moment before he realizes what it must be.

“Stori,” Draco says, shocked and sad and excited all at the same time, “Are you sure?”

“We agreed a long time ago that this would be the solution should either of us fall in love with someone else.”

“Of course—but we were talking hypothetically back then,” Draco points out, clutching the heavy parchment like a life line.

“Yes,” Astoria says, pinning him with a look, “and now it’s not so hypothetical. It doesn’t change anything. I just want you to be happy, Draco.”

“Thank you,” Draco says, with as much sincerity as he can, “I love you, you do know that?”

Astoria sniffles but a smile stretches across her face, “I know. And I love you too.”

“You’ll still be here though, right?” Draco asks suddenly, an icy fear settling in his stomach.

“Unless you’re planning to kick me out,” Astoria says with a laugh, and relief rushes through him, “Once the boys are older and off at Hogwarts for most of the year, I assume the living arrangements will change. But for now I’m quite happy with the way things are.”

Draco thinks that he’s quite happy with the way things are too.

. . .

Sunday dinner has become one of Draco’s favorite things. Lately, he has even found himself looking forward to going to the cosy, crooked house—eating the most delicious food he’s ever tasted and watching fondly as Scorpius runs through the overgrown garden with the other children. 

Draco never had that as a child, and he is beyond grateful that Scorpius gets to. 

The Burrow is overpacked today, filled to the brim with the people Draco now thinks of as his own. All the Weasleys’ and Potters’, Andromeda and Teddy, even Astoria is there. 

Draco’s heart is full of love and gratitude as he looks around, completely in awe, at the strange and unique little family they have all somehow made for themselves.

Before he has time to become concerned about the sappy direction his thoughts have taken, the door swings open and Draco almost falls off his chair.

“Blaise?!”

In an instant, everyone begins talking over one another, loudly drowning out Draco’s demand to be told exactly what the fuck is going on.

“Would everyone shut the hell up,” Ginny yells and it’s rather effective, the noise dying down a bit. Blaise slings an arm around her slender shoulders and grins.

“Language!” Molly scolds, swatting at her daughter with a wooden spatula, “Now what is going on?”

“Nothing’s going on,” Ginny says with a smirk, ”Can’t a girl bring her boyfriend over for dinner?”

The volume of voices in the room rises until it’s so overwhelming, that Draco fears his hearing will be permanently damaged.

Everyone welcomes Blaise easily, congratulating the new couple with hugs and back slaps. Draco is drawn into the excitement and never does get an explanation.

Many hours later, when the sun is starting to set and they’ve all been stuffed full of desserts, Draco wanders outside to enjoy a minute of fresh air and silence.

Harry follows him out, walking up behind him and wrapping Draco in his arms. 

“You alright?” Harry asks, the words muffled against the back of Draco’s neck, “I know it can be a lot.”

“I’m fine. Just needed a minute.”

They stand there until the sky turns dark and the stars twinkle bright overhead. _This_, this is happiness Draco thinks, turning in Harry’s embrace and bringing their mouths together.

“Take me home,” Draco says quietly, and Harry does. 

. . . 

~Harry~

They don’t make it past the living room, frantically shedding their clothes and falling to the sofa tangled around each other. 

They stay pressed close afterwards, allowing their breathing to slow and their heart beats to settle. Harry closes his eyes and tucks his face into Draco’s neck, just hiding there, safe.

He almost thinks that Draco has fallen asleep when he suddenly speaks, breaking the content silence.

“I still can’t believe your ex-wife is dating one of my best friends,” Draco says, and Harry can’t help but be amused at the genuine shock in his voice. He wishes he had gotten a picture of Draco’s face when he saw Ginny and Blaise walk in together. 

Harry laughs, pulling back to look at Draco, “Yeah, that was a surprise.”

“This year has been full of the unexpected,” Draco says, his voice slurred and soft, eyelids starting to droop.

“Hmm,” Harry hums, pushing Draco’s hair back and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, “Falling in love with you was my favorite. It was the best surprise of my life.”

“Sap,” Draco replies teasingly, but Harry can see the emotion shining in his eyes and he knows Draco feels the same way.

Looking back, Draco tumbling out of that fireplace and into Harry could have been disastrous. It could have ended just as easily with hexes and curses flying. But instead he found a partner, a lover, a best friend. 

To think of what might have happened, if on that morning, Harry had gotten up the first time his wand buzzed to wake him. He wouldn’t have been late. Draco wouldn’t have, quite literally, ran into him and Harry wouldn’t be here now. 

But because of ten precious minutes he’s here, his fingers tracing patterns on the soft skin of Draco’s back. _Here_—warm and content and loved.

Harry has to believe that there had been magic at work that day, something beyond their control, invisible threads pulling them into each other’s orbit. Maybe it was love, even then.

It’s a scary thing—love. The most powerful magic of them all. It has the ability to make you forsake all logic and rational thought. It can break down all your walls, strip every ounce of your composure away and make you lose control. 

Love is reckless. It’s impulsive. Vulnerable. 

Love is giving another person the power to hurt you, scar you, and absolutely destroy you. 

There are no boundaries, no line drawn in the sand. When you love someone you give them everything. You put the most important parts of yourself in their hands, only able to hope that they’ll treat them with care, and when you stumble and inevitably fall, that they’ll catch you.

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had a blast writing this and I can’t believe it’s over!! Many, many thanks to everyone who subscribed, commented, or left kudos <3 I appreciate it more than you know!


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